Into the Sunset
by WikketKrikket
Summary: AU. It's 1974 and Douglas Richardson is an up-and-coming pilot in an up-and-coming air charter firm. The last thing he needs is a female captain trying to boss him about just so Carolyn can make a point. The last thing Captain Martha Crieff needs, meanwhile, is Douglas Richardson. What he wants is a drink, and what she wants is a cigarette.
1. Fitton

A/N: So I admit this is a ridiculous idea, but I've been waiting a long time to write it. It all comes from an AU Blackthorn14 and I developed a long time ago, but I admit I'd sort of lost interest in it. Then along came Smallsteps32, and her fabulous story 'On the Other Side', which features the reverse of this: A female Douglas/Deborah and a male Martin and hgggk they're just so cute I started thinking about this AU again and how much better it would work with an (eventual) Martha/Douglas pairing. There will be fluff. So much fluff. But first, plenty of drama and plenty of silly events. Enjoy. (And go read 'On the Other Side'. The sequel has just started, I'm so excited!)

A tiny bit of housekeeping- The story is going to be a mixture of original stuff, and chapters based loosely around episodes; some will be closer than others, but there should be plenty of new things to keep it interesting. They won't come in order, but they will be within series- so, for example, I'm going to have events based on 'Edinburgh' next time followed by events loosely based on 'Cremona' for the third chapter, and then there might be some new places, etc. So, in true Cabin Pressure style, the chapter titles are going to be place names where the action takes place :P

Except this chapter title is misleading; it's in Fitton but it has nothing to do with the Fitton episode. Oops.

So after the world's longest author's note and a brief pause to say that I do not own anything for the duration, let's get started :)

Chapter One- Fitton

Moving to MJN Air hadn't exactly been what you would call a career move. It was more a sort of _cat_ move: Douglas Richardson would always land on his feet, even if dropped from a great height, even if said great height was 35,000 feet up with Air England who threw you out of the plane for the little light smuggling that was supposed to be funding the divorce for your prematurely collapsed marriage. The divorce, however, had admittedly not been quite as premature as the wedding. He had married a few days after his twenty-first birthday; he'd just got his first job as a pilot and got his first house and in all the excitement had gone and got the wife to put in it. Three years later and the wife had gone out of it, and after four he himself had been forced out of Air England. It was an industry black ball situation, and perhaps he wouldn't have been hired again, if he hadn't stumbled across Carolyn Knapp-Shappey's somewhat desperate sounding advertisement for a first officer. Most pilots, he supposed, wouldn't want to work for a woman; but he couldn't afford to be choosy and it sounded rather fun. Anyway, he had been quite philosophical about it all- it was 1972, and women were popping up everywhere in unexpected places, giddy with the delights of so-called second wave feminism and the contraceptive pill. Douglas rather thought they would all have to get used to working for women eventually; if only until something better came along. Anyway, MJN Air had looked rather promising back then, shining and newly founded, full of bright ideas and aspirations.

After two years or so, the gloss had rather worn away and he had reassessed the little charter firm somewhat, but he had yet to abandon all hope. True, he had not been promoted to Captain when their other one had retired the month before, but he couldn't deny the truth of Carolyn's assertion that he, at just twenty-seven, was still too young and inexperienced to be a Captain. He _was _young. Young and going places- and so would this company, if Carolyn had found a decent captain. She'd been talking about expanding; if she'd found someone who knew what they were doing it might even be possible. It was the height of summer, 1974, and Douglas was in the MJN Air office with his jacket on the back of his chair, his sleeves rolled up and his feet on the desk next to the typewriter, waiting for someone to arrive, perhaps Carolyn, or his new captain, or the someone she had apparently taken on to help her with the stewardess-ing.

It was dreadfully hot and stuffy in the office and he was fanning himself with the accounts book in an attempt to stay awake when he heard someone approaching from outside. In one swift movement he swung his legs under the desk and opened the accounts in front of him, looking for all the world as if he had been hard at work, just in case it was his new captain. Instead, after knocking and waiting for an answer from within, it was a young woman that entered.

She looked to be little younger than he was himself, yet Douglas thought that this woman could only really be described as a _girl_. Perhaps it was something to do with the nervous face she was pulling and the fact she was clearly chewing on her lower lip. She was pale and pasty, without make up, stick thin and with sharp points where it would have been more becoming to have gentle curves. Still, it wasn't all bad. She looked to be about five foot four, five foot five inches or so; a nice height for a woman, Douglas thought, short without being inconveniently so; one would not have to bend over to look her in the eye. Her poor complexion was actually somewhat improved by the scattering of freckles across her face and unusually, she had completely ginger hair. This was not some out of the bottle colour with a reddish hue, this was a full blown hair-themed carrot tribute. It was pinned up behind her head in a kind of knot or a very messy bun which evidently did very little to disguise its length, because Douglas knew nothing about women's hairstyles and yet could guess confidently that it was very long indeed. Her legs weren't bad either, though she really needed to be wearing heels rather than flats. It was no wonder she hadn't been able to find stewardess work before this, as he guessed from her nerves she hadn't. It wasn't just that she was somewhat plain, it was the fact that she seemed to totally lack any kind of _glamour _to make the most of her redeeming features.

He decided at this point to pause in his analysis and say hello.

"Good morning." She replied. "You must be Mr Richardson. I'm Martha." She offered a hand to shake, but he, never one to miss an opportunity, pressed it to his lips instead. It was always good to have the stewardesses on side, and the quickest way to do that was to flirt shamelessly.

"Please, call me Douglas." He said, smiling winningly and releasing her hand when she awkwardly pulled away. She took a slight step backwards, hovering near the door. He wondered how she was going to cope with being a stewardess if she couldn't deal with a little light flirtation. It would at least be interesting to watch.

"Why don't you sit down?" He said, after watching her rock on her feet for a moment. "I don't know where Carolyn has got to, but I'm sure she'll be along any moment."

"Mm, she said she might be delayed." Martha said, dropping with visible relief into the chair on the other side of the desk. "Apparently she's bringing the new cabin crew."

Douglas looked at her, startled. If she wasn't the new cabin crew, then who was she? It occurred to him that he may have made a slight error. He decided to turn on the charm a little.

"I'm so sorry, miss." He said, in his special soothing-irate-clients voice. "I do apologise for the mistake. Carolyn hadn't told me what time you would be arriving, so I'm afraid I rather assumed you were our new stewardess."

Martha was looking at him in bewilderment, so he continued in his very smoothest of smooth voices. Carolyn would kill him if he lost them a client.

"Although, obviously, I did think it strange that a young woman with such obvious class and sophistication would deign to work with us poor souls in the aviation industry; it just goes to show that when something seems too good to be true, it probably is." Martha still didn't say anything, and so he concluded. "I'm sure Carolyn won't be long, but would Miss like a cup of tea while she waits?"

"Oh no." Martha said, looking at him very much as if he had grown an extra head. "She hasn't told you."

"Hasn't told me what?"

She opened her mouth in the pantomime of having words to push out of it, but before she could come up with any, Carolyn entered with her son in tow. She stopped short when she saw Martha.

"Ah." She said. "I see you've met. Good! Well then, Martha, this is my son, Arthur; Douglas you've seen him about before I think, but now he's finished school he is going to be taking over stewarding duties so make sure you keep an eye on him. Arthur, you remember Douglas, and this is Martha."

"Hello!" Arthur said, slightly breathless from nerves and excitement. Douglas knew for a fact the lad was only sixteen but already rather tall and well built, but at that moment he had such a look of wide-eyed wonder on his face that he wouldn't have looked out of place in a reception class. Anyone would think he had never seen an airfield before, which he had, because he had joined them on standby for a day a year or two before and done nothing but ask questions. He had wanted to be a pilot back then and Douglas had attempted to give him some pointers, but he had evidently lowered his ambitions, probably a wise move. It was not Arthur Douglas had a problem with.

"If he's the cabin crew," He said, not beating about the bush, "And she's _not, _and she's _not _a client, then who the _hell _is she?"

He was upset, admittedly, because he had already half-guessed. To his surprise, it was Martha that answered him, getting to her feet in apparent indignation and rolling her shoulders back, standing absolutely straight as she glared at him.

"_She _is _Captain _Martha Crieff, Mr Richardson, and you may call her _ma'am_."

Ooooooooooo

Martha had tactfully left the room and Arthur had been dispatched to show her around the airfield while Carolyn discussed her decision with Douglas. Discussion meaning argument. Douglas was not happy, not at all.

"You can't be serious!"

"Oh, but I am, Douglas." Carolyn said firmly. "I don't see why it should be such a problem."

"I'm not working for a woman." He said, disgruntled. "I refuse."

"You already work for a woman."

"Yes, but not on the flight deck!" There was a note of pleading desperation in his voice that Douglas didn't like, and sought to extradite immediately by switching to an appeal to reason and flattery. "The world is changing, I get it. I'm happy to work for you and I have every confidence in your abilities to run a business. But that's _different_. You aren't flying a plane. Female pilots are extremely rare, I think they all disappeared after the war and I've never even _heard _of a female captain. Anyway, it doesn't matter what I think-"

"You're right, it doesn't matter what you think, and yet, here we still are, stuck in this conversation."

"No, Carolyn, I mean the _passengers _won't trust her. She won't sound authoritative enough, they wouldn't feel safe. We'll look unprofessional, Carolyn, we'll be a laughing stock!"

"No, we'll be the airline that everyone is talking about." Carolyn said, with the familiar gleam of a money-making plan in her eyes. "Our fame will spread, interest will grow; scandal is the one sure way to get your name spread. Besides, don't you see, it's win-win. She can be two jobs in one. She can be a pilot most of the time, but then when we have an important client who wants a nice young woman to bring him his drink, she can pop on a stewardess uniform and oblige him."

Sometimes Douglas thought Carolyn was more sexist than he was. He wondered if Martha knew about this, or if he would have the delight of breaking it to her himself.

"Anyway," Carolyn continued "The poor girl just wants to fly aeroplanes, someone needs to give her a chance."

"Then make her First Officer!"

"Ah, but that just doesn't have quite the same ring to it, I don't think. Don't you agree?" Carolyn's sweet smile did not match her spiteful words.

"Even forgetting that she's a woman, she's younger than me and much less experienced than me, you just can't-!"

"Why can't I? It's my company, I get to decide who I hire."

"And I get to decide if I quit!"

His words hit against the cheap MDF walls of their office and fell flat. Silence reigned.

"Well then, Douglas," Carolyn said eventually. "By all means quit. Off you go."

She was attempting to call his bluff and they both knew it. The thing was, Douglas wasn't entirely sure if he _was_ bluffing. He wouldn't deny that the main problem here was that his pride was hurt. For all his bluster, however, he was quite used to women pilots. His own mother and aunt had both done their wartime conscription in the Women's Auxiliary Airforce. His elder brother had already been born by then so his mother had stayed firmly on the ground, mostly packing parachutes; but his aunt had been in the Air Transport Auxiliary. She had never flown in combat, of course, but she had still had plenty of stories to tell Douglas when he was growing up; and if ever Douglas had been tempted to be scathing of the glorified delivery job his father would undoubtedly have taken the belt to him. His dad had been in the RAF proper, and the idea of community appealed to him. His war stories had never been very interesting. He wouldn't talk about the spitfire battles or being shot down on the wrong side of the line or any of the other numerous adventures Douglas' childish imagination attributed to him. He would only talk about how they couldn't have won without the ATA, without the Home Guard and the ARP units and rationing and everyone giving in their metal. For tales of airborne adventures, he'd had to go to his aunt. It was her, more than his father, that he'd been thinking of when he decided to become a pilot. She was the one who had added the glamour to the job.

And that was the problem, he decided at last. There was no dignity in being under a woman's command, not on the flight deck anyway. If he wasn't ready to be captain, he wanted a captain who he could learn from, who would improve his skills, let him meet the right people. This girl wouldn't be able to do anything like that; if anything, given that this was apparently her first flying job, he would be doing it for _her_. If she was an old ATA veteran he could have understood it; if she was an aging pioneer adventuress he would gladly and respectfully have taken the junior seat beside her and waited to see what he could glean from her wisdom. But Martha Crieff was none of those things, she was just a girl with no experience. She probably couldn't even take off on her own properly.

There were pilots who would have quit over it, especially pilots with his charm and smarm and ability to endear himself to almost anyone. But they were pilots who hadn't been black listed by the largest airline in the country. The aviation industry was a very small one and everyone knew everyone else. If he left piloting in a strop and slammed the door behind him, he might find it locked for good. He couldn't leave and Carolyn knew it, she'd known it before he had.

"I'll give her a chance." Douglas said magnanimously. "She won't last long. I give it about a week till you change your mind."

"We'll see, shall we?" Carolyn answered. "Now, if you've quite finished your hissy fit, go and find Martha and tell her to come and get her uniform; the client will be here any minute. Then you can go and do the walk round."

"Surely the Captain should-"

"_Now, _Douglas."

There were certain tones of voice you didn't argue with however much you wanted to. With a theatrical sigh, Douglas went.

It could be an interesting week or two. She wouldn't last longer than that.


	2. Edinburgh

A/N: For some reason this chapter seemed to take forever to write, and not just because I kept having to break off to check how much a fire engine could carry or how much a pound was worth in 1974. (Also- the Six Nations was the Five Nations back then, and there isn't technically a final in either of them, according to the internet. But ssh, just go with it!) Ah well, it's done now, though there may still be some typos- I'm kind of tired right now. Anyway, enjoy!

Chapter Two- Edinburgh

It was still summer, still 1974, and a month and a half after her appointment Martha Crieff was still playing captain. Not that Douglas was worried. If the last month had proven anything, it was that Martha was just as incompetent as Douglas had said she would be, if not worse. Oh, she had good _theoretical _knowledge, far better than his or any other pilot he had met; he wasn't ashamed to admit it. But she had no _instinct _for it, no talent; in the air, gut reactions were as important as book learning any day, and Martha's gut seemed entirely stationary. Six weeks and he had yet to see a quiver out of it; she relied on the manuals, not her common sense, to dictate how she reacted to a situation, but in such a flustered way that it was usually misapplied or too late. Douglas' bruised ego had been somewhat soothed- and vindictively satisfied- to discover she was a terrible pilot; nervous, too fixated on proving herself, and prone to low-level panic. She had yet to complete a successfully smooth take off and when they had come across a tricky landing in a cross wind on a small hop over to Jersey, she had insisted on taking it only to need him to talk her through it. He was a much better pilot than she was. Of course.

If she had been his first officer, he might have gone easy on her. It was, after all, her first flying job and he doubted he had been much better first time out. He would have taken her under his wing, taught her the tricks of the trade, helped her to relax- if that was even possible for her. If she had even been a little bit apologetic about being the captain, he might have generously forgiven and advised her. The problem was, Martha was not apologetic, not in the slightest. She seemed to feel she had been divinely ordained for the task of being his captain and that she had every right to be there. He suspected her arrogance was, at heart, a crippling lack of self-confidence in herself and her abilities, but the furious need to prove herself capable was irritating in the extreme, and unhelpful. She was constantly looking to assert her authority, no matter how often it was undermined by her ridiculous mistakes. She was attempting to keep him cowed, but Douglas was not going to bow to it.

On the brighter side, he suspected Martha wasn't going to be around much longer, he was sure of it. Carolyn was only keeping her on out of stubbornness, she couldn't seriously think Martha was a good asset for MJN. And Douglas wasn't even having to do anything to try and drive her out; Martha could mess things up all on her own. Every flight he would sit back, relax, and see what cock up _Captain _Crieff would entertain him with next. Remarkably, she hadn't had one yet that flight, but it surely couldn't be far away.

Right on cue, Arthur entered the flight deck, looking close to panic himself.

"Douglas," He said. "I think- well, I was up on the roof and I saw her and she _did_- Martha just slapped Mr Birling!"

Ah. There it was.

Ooooooooooooo

For once, Douglas arrived early at the airfield. He usually had a fairly liberal view of what counted as 'on time', deciding that time was an abstract concept and therefore at least as flexible as Carolyn's tolerance of his audacity. He had spent his time at MJN working out how late he could be without getting the proverbial pink slip, and had now worked it out into a perfect routine. Not today though. Today Carolyn had told them all to be at Fitton airfield at nine, and here he was at five to. Wouldn't Martha be pleased? Douglas actually bothered to punch his time card that day, the first time in a long while it wouldn't show him arriving late. Actually, it seemed like it had been more or less a year since he had last done it. But of course, he was always early on this day every year- today was the day of the Five Nations Rugby Final; today was Birling Day.

He didn't quite understand why Mr Birling wanted to head off so early when the match wasn't until the afternoon and was only in Edinburgh, but he wouldn't complain, it simply meant there was more chance of getting tips. Assuming that neither of his new esteemed colleagues messed it up for him, of which he held out little hope.

Arthur was a risk. He knew about Mr Birling and he was affable enough, people seemed to like the lad, but he was so young and clumsy and didn't quite know what he was doing yet. Douglas was a little bit worried he would upset things somehow. Then there was Martha, who did not know about Mr Birling's excellent tips and Douglas didn't know whether or not to tell her. He wasn't spiteful and however irritating his 'captain' was, she wasn't deliberately so. Besides, it was of mutual benefit. If Martha was working to keep Mr Birling happy too, the tips would be higher for all of them.

On the other hand, she was competition. If Mr Birling had a couple of thousand pounds to use in tips, it was better to split it between fewer people. Anyway, he was sure Martha would find something in the rules that said they shouldn't accept large tips; he could practically hear the words _bribery _and _corruption _on her pursed lips. Or perhaps, if she missed out, it would teach her not to be such a stickler. Better not to tell her if he could avoid it, then, if Arthur hadn't already let the cat out of the bag. Otherwise, he would follow Douglas' lead, he always did. Arthur saw him as a role model, Douglas rather thought. It was nice to have someone looking up to you, even if it was only Arthur, who thought everyone was brilliant.

Arthur was waiting for him as he came out of the Airfield reception, carrying, of all things, a bucket in each hand.

"Hi Douglas!" He said, cheery as always. The boy was still thrilled that he was allowed to call them by their first names, and said them as much as possible. "You're here early! Well, early for you."

"But of course. After all, it is Birling Day. Still, I don't see why the old boy wanted us so early."

"Oh." Arthur said. "It's not Mr Birling, it's mum. She wants us to give Gerti a wash before we go get him. Martha sent me to fill some buckets from the standpipe."

"What? No! Why can't she get it cleaned properly?"

"Because last time they scratched the paint." Arthur said. "Come on Douglas, cheer up! It'll be fun!"

"Arthur, in what _possible_ way will this be fun?"

"Well, it'll be like washing a car, but it's a plane!"

"I see. No."

"No?"

"No, I'm not doing it."

"Oh." Arthur said, chewing his lip nervously. "Okay. But I think mum wants you to. And Mr Birling might be happier in a clean plane."

This much was true. Poor old Gerti was looking distinctly grey about the gills.

"Still." Douglas said. "This is a joke. We're not paid to wash her plane."

"But we can make it fun! Skip said I can bring out my Roberts radio from the office, and the weather's nice, and maybe we can, you know, make it a game. Like when they have to clean up on _Mary Poppins_."

Douglas groaned. He didn't care what the consequences were, if anyone started singing at him, he was out of there. He consoled himself that Martha would not be any happier with the situation than he was, she would undoubtedly complain that it was beneath her dignity as a captain, it was her favourite excuse whenever she wouldn't play a word game because she couldn't win. He could leave the complaints to her; if she won, then he wouldn't have to do it either, and if Carolyn won, at least he didn't lose any brownie points for making a fuss. Martha did have her uses sometimes.

To his surprise however, his 'captain' seemed in unusually good spirits, waiting next to Gerti with a smile on her face as she smoked her morning cigarette. She had already changed into casual clothes for the task, which for Martha meant jeans and a patterned blouse. Goodness forgive that she should ever be seen in a skirt. She had worn one that first day when she'd arrived, but with thick tights on, and ever since, he had only ever seen her in long trousers. She even wore trousers with her uniform and nobody but Douglas seemed to realise how ridiculous it made her look. The woman was a tragedy. She blew smoke for the last time as she saw them coming then ground the cigarette out with her sandal, turning to greet them.

"Oh, Douglas, there you are." She said, practically beaming. She had never before been so pleased to see him. Perhaps he would be on time more often. "Arthur, did you bring the water?"

"Yes Skip!"

"Excellent."

The two of them, Douglas decided, were as bad as each other.

"You can't seriously be alright with this, Martha. What about your dignity as a captain?"

"There's nothing dignified in flying a dirty plane." She said. "And they never make a proper job of cleaning it. At least this way I can make sure it's done properly." She patted the side of the plane affectionately. Ah. The control freak rode again. "Anyway," She said, putting her hands on her hips in a pose she fancied was authoritative but really just made her look like a pouting child. "It might be fun. If nothing else, it'll be satisfying when we're done."

Douglas rolled his eyes. "Goody." She'd taken a bucket and sponge from Arthur and was trying to hand it off to him, so he finally gave in, removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeves before accepting with a heavy sigh.

"Good." Martha said. "Now, Arthur, come and hold this step ladder so I can get up onto the roof."

"I'll do it." Douglas said. At least the jeans she was wearing were tight. When she moved, too, her blouse would rise up just slightly. Douglas hadn't made his mind up about the curve of her back yet, let alone her backside, but he would have liked the chance to.

"Not you." She said. "Arthur, come on."

"Really, Martha, you'd be better off sending Arthur up there. It doesn't look far but it's not an easy climb from the wing to the roof. There's nothing to grab onto."

Martha frowned at him and before anyone could stop her, she bolted up the step ladder and onto the wing. There wasn't time to be worried about her falling, she barely paused to regain her balance before with a step and a stretch and a shimmy she pulled herself onto the roof, making it look as easy as walking.

"When I was a kid," She grinned down at him. "The boys used to say I couldn't climb trees. I proved them wrong. So don't say I can't climb an aeroplane."

Clearly she could climb an aeroplane. Douglas had a stray thought which noted that there was something surprisingly sexy about the way she'd done it, too. He decided to put it down to the fact that Martha hadn't screwed up for once and, still not quite liking what it seemed to say about him, moved one of the stepladders and began to moodily clean the tail as Martha lay down flat on the roof, trying to reach the bucket of soapy water Arthur was holding up to her.

Needless to say, the bucket eventually ended up on the roof, but empty of water, which was all over Arthur. Douglas laughed and Martha irritably threw a sponge at him, and somehow, the whole thing turned into a water fight which Douglas couldn't quite gauge the spirit of. In some ways, it was just a bit of harmless summer fun.

In others, it was a vicious fight to the death, in which not very much plane got cleaned. The match was declared a stalemate when Carolyn arrived and shouted at them, but secretly Douglas knew he had won. He was far more accurate than both Martha and Arthur, and when he had removed and discarded his sodden shirt, Martha had turned a very interesting shade of red, in the way that only those blessed as gingers can; which made them even for the climbing incident earlier. Yes, the victory was undoubtedly his.

The only problem was, now they only had a few minutes to get the plane absolutely spick and span. Martha got up on the roof again and furiously started cleaning it, but Douglas had a better idea and went to have a word with the fire crew. He was back before the 'captain' had even noticed he was gone.

"Captain." Douglas called. "Might I make a suggestion?"

"I'd rather you got a bucket." Martha replied, scowling down at him.

"I have got a bucket, in a manner of speaking." Douglas answered. "One that holds three hundred gallons, is mounted onto a fire engine, and is attached to a high pressure hose."

"Oh!" For a moment Martha seemed quite pleased with his idea, but then she remembered the rules. "And what would we do if there was a fire and we had emptied the tank?"

"And what will you do, Captain, if Carolyn sees that Gerti is still filthy with Mr Birling on the way? Anyway, Phil owes me a favour, a few gallons is the least he can do."

"Alright." Martha said, chewing her lip as was her habit whenever she agreed to something she wasn't sure she should. She dropped down onto the wing, only to discover her escape blocked by the fact that at some point Arthur had moved the step ladder. She looked at the drop, which was a matter of just seven feet or so, but far enough when you didn't have many feet to spare. Douglas relented.

"Sit on the edge." He said. "I'll lift you."

Martha frowned but finally nodded, sitting on the edge where he could just about reach to grab her round the hips. He swung her down, noting how light she was. She staggered and he steadied her, his hands still on her bony waist, her hands lingering on his bare shoulders. He realised suddenly that this was the first time they'd had any physical contact beyond a handshake or an occasional shoulder pat or jocular jostling of the elbows. It was somehow pleasing, aesthetically at least. He felt that she looked good, that they looked good standing there together.

He blamed drinking before he came to work. It helped him keep his cock-sure confidence, yes, but it made his judgement go right out of the window; if he could still have any sort of the slightest lust for this arrogant, pasty-skinned, slip of a ginger girl, he dreaded to think what sort of state he was in.

"I don't see what's so special about this Mr Birling anyway." Martha grumbled, but Douglas suspected she was just saying it to have something to say, and did not reply.

Ooooooooooooo

"No, no, no, no, absolutely not, no!" This was Martha's reaction on being told to change out of her jeans not into her captain's uniform but into that of a stewardess. To say she was not happy was an understatement. "I'm _not _a stewardess, Carolyn, I'm a pilot, a _captain_. You can't just expect me to-"

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, you see, I _do _expect you to and you will, if you want to keep that precious pilot's job you're so fond of." Carolyn said.

"But why? Why can't Arthur just steward like always?"

"Because Mr Birling wants the best, not whatever it is Arthur gives him." Carolyn replied, ignoring the protests of both her son and her captain. "We do not have time for this, Martha, just stop being so childish and go and put it on."

Martha huffed and folded her arms, not moving.

"Go on." Douglas purred. "I'm sure it will look lovely."

"Well, you'll never know because I'm not going to wear it!"

"Oh? Really? But it's just your colour. It'll match your eyes."

"Douglas, I _swear-_"

"_Enough_!" Carolyn thundered over them. "Douglas, shut up, Martha, for goodness' sake go and get changed and Arthur go and make sure the inside of Gerti is as clean as the outside. Now!"

Martha went, but not without a filthy look at Douglas which suggested she thought this was all his fault. Well, he was rather enjoying it. Today he was captain again. Only of himself, true, but it would be nice to reclaim his flight deck for a while, even if Martha would undoubtedly be unbearable when she came back. Also, if it was her and Arthur, not Carolyn, who were looking after Mr Birling, it would no doubt be far easier to achieve his real objective for the day- stealing Mr Birling's Talisker. Douglas liked Mr Birling's whiskey even more than he liked Mr Birling's tips and he particularly enjoyed the challenge of stealing it and the feeling smarter than everyone else. This Birling Day would be no different to the rest- no matter how much Carolyn threatened him, which she now proceeded to do, he would not back down. She couldn't really expect him to. This was his game, and he would never give in.

Ooooooooooooo

"Dougie, my dear boy, how are you?" Mr Birling greeted him jovially as he got out of his car at the airfield, where they were waiting to receive him. "Return to command position at last, I see, excellent."

"That's right, Mr Birling, I will be your captain today." Douglas said, more for Martha's benefit than the client's. He could see she was still furious and was wondering how much it would take to tip her over the edge.

"_Acting _captain!" She said. "He's only _acting _captain!" She had been expressly forbidden from saying _she _was the captain, but as she usually announced it to every person that was unfortunate enough to cross her path, Douglas did not hold out much hope of her lasting all the way to Edinburgh and back.

"And who is this?" Mr Birling asked. "New stewardess, is it? My goodness, Dougie, you could do a bit better. What's the point of getting rid of the old one if you're just going to give me an ugly one instead?"

"I beg your pardon?" Martha said, a flush of anger coming to her cheeks.

"Nothing against you dear, nothing against you; I've seen far uglier than you in my time. You're just a bit plain, that's all, you can't deny that, can you? And who are you, young man?"

"Hello Mr Birling! I'm Arthur!"

"Arthur, my lad, good to meet you. Arthur's a good name, like Arthur Lewis. Do you know Arthur Lewis, my boy?"

"Sorry, Arthur who?"

"Lewis, boy, Lewis! He plays rugby for Wales! Or he did, until last year. Follow the rugby, do you?"

"Not really… but I want to! I have some of the cigarette cards."

"An excellent start, an excellent start. We'll soon have you wised up with the best, not to worry."

"I doubt that." Douglas muttered, and for a second Martha's scowl twitched towards a smile. He wished she would laugh more, she was so dour. She probably thought it was a sign of weakness.

"Well, what are we standing about here for?" Mr Birling demanded. "Let's get in the plane and the girl can bring me my whiskey."

"My name is Martha, Mr Birling." Martha said in a tone that suggested she would like to say a lot more.

"Really? How dreadful."

Douglas saw her face and began to get the feeling that this flight was not going to run smoothly.

And indeed he was right. Somehow, remarkably, Martha did not tumble about the size of the tips, and the grossly underestimated amount she did have in her mind after a thoughtless comment from Arthur was not worth, in her opinion, bowing and scraping to a man like Mr Birling. Their toadying frustrated her no end, but really, it was just her pride that was hurt and a slice of humble pie would probably do her some good. Douglas rather hoped that having someone else belittle her would make her think a little more about her dictatorial attempts at flight deck management. Of course, more likely, her smarting pride and undermined confidence would make her worse than ever, but he decided to ignore that possibility. He needed to concentrate on getting the Talisker, but with Martha to serve Mr Birling, Arthur was purely focused on keeping Douglas away from the whiskey and vice versa. The lad was eager but not very bright; he did not present too much of a challenge on his own, but with Martha constantly checking on him and reminding him of his duties it made it much harder. Still, Douglas had a plan all ready to go, he just needed the opportunity to put it into practice.

The opportunity finally came when they had arrived in Edinburgh. A distinctly disgruntled Martha was seeing Mr Birling out to his limo and Douglas was attempting to rig up a television and aerial so they could watch the match on the flight deck. He sent Arthur out to shin up onto the roof to fix the aerial to something and while he was gone, set to work. By the time the boy came back, flustered with his news, Douglas was back in his chair as if nothing had happened.

"Douglas," He said. "I think- well, I was up on the roof and I saw her and she _did_- Martha just slapped Mr Birling!"

"Goodness." Douglas said, already trying to work out if this would have a negative effect on his level of tip or not. It probably would, which meant something had to be done. "What did he say to her?"

"I don't know, I couldn't hear." Arthur said. "But he's been being a bit, you know, sort of rude-ish the whole flight. I think Skipper was getting cross."

At that moment Martha herself entered, slumping into the spare seat, for once not heeding that it was the first officer's chair. She looked horrified.

"I just slapped Mr Birling." She said, in shock.

"So I hear."

"Carolyn will give me the sack."

"Quite possibly, yes. What happened?"

"I…"

"Here." Douglas handed her a glass, almost empty. "Steady your nerves, Captain."

"Thanks." She sipped gratefully. "Oh, that's good, what is that?"

"Talisker."

"Talisker?! You're drinking Mr Birling's whiskey?!"

"Well," Douglas examined his nails, studiously calm. "Not now, you've finished it."

This was not true. The rest was in the avionics bay, awaiting him to drink them later. But Martha didn't need to know that.

"I don't understand!" Arthur protested as Martha mumbled something about being made an _accomplice_. "How did you do it?! I checked on my way back in and they were definitely all still there! I picked one at random and it was still sealed!"

"No, Arthur, it still made a 'crkk' noise. Now, there are two ways a bottle can sound like that when it opens. One is-"

"I don't care how you did it!" Martha interrupted. "Just focus on how we're going to stop Carolyn from firing me!"

For a moment Douglas was tempted to say no, to turn her aside. She would have told him that he had made his bed and now he had to lie in it. But once again, he needed Mr Birling to be happy too, and if he was being assaulted by the supposed stewardess, Mr Birling was probably not very happy at all.

"Just calm down and tell us what happened."

"This is why I didn't want to be a stewardess!" Martha sniffed, after a moment's pause. "Men like him, who think you're just there to be leered at. He had no respect, no respect at all. He insulted everything about me, my clothes, my face, the job he _thought_ I had, and when I told him I was the captain he wouldn't believe me! And then, when I was seeing him out to the limo," her eyes lit up with righteous indigence. "He was getting annoyed that I wouldn't roll over like you two and said- you won't believe this- he said 'I assume the other two have told you that I will pay well for your services?'. My _services_! Well, you can imagine exactly what he meant." She shot a guilty look at Arthur, probably worrying about such sordid talk in front of him. "So I slapped him. He deserved it! She can't fire me!"

Douglas buried his face in his hands and groaned.

"What? What is it?"

"You stupid, stupid girl." He sighed. "Do you honestly think, after he spent all morning calling you ugly or plain, that he would then seriously try to solicit you for sexual favours?!"

Martha shifted uncomfortably. "He might. He might have just been being defensive-"

"No, Martha, no, your services- your _customer _service. Mr Birling likes us to bend over backwards for him and in return he tips generously."

"Yes, I know, seventy-five quid each. I still don't see-"

"Yeah, but mum said it was only seventy-five because England won." Arthur interrupted. "The time before that, he gave her a grand, and Wales weren't even playing that time."

"What? Why would he support Wales?"

"I know it may be hard to tell from behind that Eton accent, Martha," Douglas drawled. "But Mr Birling hails from the foreign climes of Swansea. If Wales win today- and I think they just might- he'll be all set to hand out money like a terminally disorganised Father Christmas. Unless, of course, he's too busy being upset by the _idiot girl _who slapped him round the face!"

"I… I…" Martha was too flabbergasted by the revelation to even retort to the insult. "I didn't know. Why didn't you tell me?!"

"Oh? Isn't it corrupt? I thought for sure your moral code would be too strict to ever allow you to accept-"

"You're right." She said, nodding. "It _is _corrupt. You can't just treat people differently just because they're rich like that. It's good that we won't get it. It's the right thing to do."

The quaver in her voice was not convincing anyone. She wouldn't say no to a thousand pounds any more than Douglas would.

"Well, thank you for selflessly deciding that on behalf of the team." Douglas snapped. "The fact remains, however, that if Mr Birling is not happy with you by the end of the trip, he will report you to Carolyn and you will be fired."

"Oh." She said. "So what do I do?"

"The same as the rest of us." Douglas shrugged. "Leave your dignity at the door and bow and scrape as if your life depends on it."

Ooooooooooooo

_Well, _Douglas thought dully, as he watched the extremely drunken Mr Birling being bundled into his car at the end of the day, having not given any of them any tip whatsoever. _At least no-one can say she didn't try_.

Martha had tried. She had proven herself to have a natural talent for sucking up to people. However, she had taken her _just-say-yes _campaign too far and had allowed Mr Birling to consume so much cheap whiskey he had become practically catatonic. Douglas was not at all impressed.

"Maybe, when he sobers up, he'll remember he didn't tip us and send us a cheque!" Arthur tried.

"Yes, or perhaps he'll ask those nice people at Pinewood studios to drop it in the next time they come to film a plane taking off." Douglas snapped back. Next to him, Martha quietly smoked the end of a post-flight cigarette. "You just lost us a lot of money, Captain, I hope you're happy." He said, sourly.

"No I didn't." She replied to him between drags. "We never had it in the first place, so how can I have lost it? Anyway, we haven't come away empty handed. You still get to drink all the Talisker and I get to keep my job without Carolyn finding out I hit a client."

It suddenly occurred to Douglas that Martha might have got Mr Birling too drunk, sacrificed all their tips, deliberately, in order to ensure the absolute safety of her own skin.

He decided to put the thought out of his mind. He could deal with many things, but the idea of there being a devious side to Martha Crieff was not one of them.


	3. Milan

A/N: Apologies for the long wait. I had a lot on this week, and I'm trying to balance my time between this and the Sherlock fic. Next week is almost as busy, so it might be as long again next time, I do apologise! But please enjoy this chapter in the meantime- at least it's long…?

Chapter Three- Milan

It was amazing what a difference six months could make. Martha had joined MJN in June; it was now December and Douglas didn't find her anywhere near as irritating. There were three main reasons for this. First, Martha had calmed down considerably, assured (unfortunately) that her captaincy wasn't going anywhere, the chip on her shoulder had been mostly filled. Second, she seemed to have at last admitted to herself- not out loud, never out loud- that Douglas was the better pilot and she usually at least listened to him now before disagreeing with him, instead of just being argumentative from the start. She didn't see to see him as an outright enemy anymore. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, there was Elaine, a girl Douglas had been knocking about with for the past month or so. It was nothing serious, just a kiss and a cuddle type affair, but it gave him someone to complain to about work, someone who wasn't Arthur and didn't think everyone and everything was brilliant by default. Sometimes he just needed someone to agree that whatever Martha had said or done was unreasonable and then he could forget about it.

Arthur would never be able to fulfil that need, particularly when it came to Martha. He seemed to have a real soft spot for her and Douglas rather suspected the teenager had a little crush on their gallant captain. It was harmless enough and Martha was oblivious, so he didn't feel the need to say anything, but it was sweet all the same. In all honesty, Douglas' tolerance of all things had increased since he had got back into a relationship himself. Sex was definitely good for you.

Still, he wasn't in such a rush to get back to the relationship that he didn't have time to enjoy what he called the 'fag ends' of each flight. Martha hated the term, but Douglas could think of none better for the cigarettes they would smoke on the flight deck at the beginning and end of each flight, before the pre-take off checks and after the post landing ones. Martha, for reasons Douglas neither understood nor cared about, would not let them smoke while the plane was in the air, even when she was clearly gasping for one herself, so it had become something of a ritual. One day Douglas had found himself without a box of matches and Martha had leant over to light his for him before touching it to the end of her own and shaking the match out just before the flame burnt her fingers. Douglas never bothered bringing matches to work again. He enjoyed those moments, the rare moments of peace where whatever arguments and disagreements they'd had during the flight were slowly smoked away and all was calm and companionship. They needed more moments like that.

Today was no different. Martha, ever the penny-pincher, had rolled a miniscule amount of her awful cheap tobacco into a cigarette which she still somehow smoked with some satisfaction while Douglas had something proper. They were having a contest, though neither of them had said a word; but with every exhalation the smoke was blown a little higher, in a longer plume. Douglas was winning. Martha had just blown smoke somewhere in the direction of the overhead lockers when Arthur wandered in.

"Hello Skip, hello Douglas." He said. "Um, are you almost finished? Only, Mum's waiting to speak to you."

"Almost." Martha said, taking another drag. "Mm. Don't ever start smoking, Arthur, it's a terrible habit." The happy sigh and the relaxed way she sank back into the seat as she said it completely belied any meaning her words might have had. She was one of the best adverts for roll-your-own Douglas had ever seen. The woman didn't need much to be pleased.

"Okay, I won't." Arthur said good naturedly and they both missed it as Douglas gave out a plume of smoke that could have put a steam engine to shame. He wished they would be a little more attentive, sometimes. It was impossible to show off if nobody was watching.

Oooooo

Hester Macauley. Douglas had heard of her, of course, _everyone _had, the woman was a star. How on earth Carolyn had persuaded her to fly with their little tin pot airline to get to Milan, Douglas could not venture to guess, but it would be nice to have a little glamour about the place for once.

Of course, Hester's heyday had been a few years ago, at the very tail end of the 60s. She had been a Bond girl alongside Sean Connery and she had been featured on _Morecambe and Wise _in 1969 and had been so popular that she came back for the Christmas special in 1970- things that, surely, were better ear marks of her success than any one of the string of awards that she could lay claim to, although she had plenty. She had always seemed very talented and kind and charming and beautiful; but then they all did. She'd been in fewer and fewer works of quality recently though, her career had been on a decline, Douglas hadn't been to see any of her films since flight school. Most recently she had been in some awful fantasy flick which had been utterly destroyed by the critics- so, naturally, _Quest for Camelot _was Arthur's very favourite film ever. He was even more excited about the actress than Douglas was. Then again, so was Martha. Although she could not claim the same levels of obsessive fan behaviour as Arthur (whose heroic _I once made her face out of pasta shapes _would be hard to beat), Martha was hoping for an autograph at least. If she could get a hello and a handshake as well, Douglas was pretty sure it would make her day; and he wouldn't mind either of those things himself. He decided it was time for levels of customer service usually displayed only on Birling Day. It was quite nice to see everyone so excited for a flight.

None of them, however, could claim to be as excited- or as much of a fan- as the group of young men that suddenly materialised around the MJN portacabin on the morning of the Milan flight, all dressed in what Douglas assumed were meant to look less like cardboard and tin foil and more like suits of armour, and singing songs about dragons. That was dedication indeed; they must have been freezing. According to Arthur, who had taken it upon himself to be their _Quest for Camelot _guide for the day, it was a song from the film. He also knew all the words, and while Carolyn and Douglas managed to stop him from going out to join them, they unfortunately could not stop him from joining in from inside the confines of the portacabin. If Martha had been there, she probably would have been able to tell him to shut up, and Arthur might have listened- he had a soft spot for the Captain after all. The strange thing was, Martha was not there. Douglas wouldn't go so far as to say he was _worried_, but it was unusual; more than that, it had never happened before. Martha always arrived before he did, except for, it seemed, today.

Her bicycle had probably got a puncture, Douglas decided. It was so old and ancient that it always looked slightly rickety in spite of the obvious care Martha took of her little pride and joy. Douglas supposed he couldn't blame her; the girl had a driving license but cars were pricey things to buy. Then again, he wondered if she would be able to replace the bicycle when it finally shook itself to pieces as she sped up and down the hills and bends of semi-rural Fitton. Yes, it was far more likely that she had driven over a stone or a bit of twig and punctured the ancient tyres than that she had lost control on the winter ice or ridden herself into a ditch somewhere or been hit by a car on a blind bend. Still, if she didn't turn up before their film star did, they might have to go without her.

The singing outside changed into voices speaking and questioning and then into a different kind of sound altogether, a commotion almost as if the star had arrived, but not quite excited enough. Douglas crossed to the window to take a look and saw a cross looking Martha being pressed on all sides by the knights elect, as she struggled to get through them without much success. She was shouting something at them too, but she wasn't being listened to. Nothing new there, then.

"What on earth is going on out there, Douglas?" Carolyn asked. "Is she here?"

"No, that's Martha they're mobbing." Douglas said. The poor captain still wasn't making much progress. Of course, Douglas could have gone out there himself, but he didn't really fancy his chances of reasoning with grown men who still played dress up. Equally he had no desire to force himself through them to reach her, not when he had a perfectly capable and fairly brawny young lad at his disposal who would love to play the hero for once. "I think it might be time to enact a rescue, Arthur." He said. "Go out there and get her, would you?"

"Yes, Douglas!" Arthur said, unable to hide his excitement at the prospect of a bit of light heroism. He barrelled out of the doors with something approaching eagerness, and the reason Martha had not yet broken through became apparent as her voice became audible over the clamour. She wasn't trying to escape, she was telling them off.

"-has already called security, now move along and get out of my way before I'm forced to telephone the airfield manager and get the police instead!"

"Just tell us what time she'll arrive!" One of the fans shouted. "We're not letting you through until you tell us!"

Douglas felt a flash of anger when he realised that neither he nor Arthur had been troubled this way- or at all- when they arrived. There was a nasty side to these fans; they had chosen their target carefully. His anger turned to pride- not to mention no small part of amusement- when Martha's response was a snort and the attempt to use her bicycle as a battering ram. By then, however, Arthur had barged his way through the circle, at which point he threw an arm round her and barged his way back again. Martha made it into the portacabin looking harangued.

"I went over and saw the airfield manager." She said, without pausing for proper greetings. "He's called security to come and move them along; I just hope he gets rid of them before Hester arrives." She jammed her bicycle into the gap between her desk and the door with far less than her usual care, clearly in a temper.

"Yes, well, I suggest we wait for her in the plane and have her come straight there." Douglas said. "If they were like that with Martha, imagine what they'll be like with Hester."

"Good idea." Martha said, and apparently remembering her manners, turned and smiled at Arthur. "Thank you for the help, Arthur, you were brilliant."

"You're welcome, Skip!" The boy said, smiling so broadly at the compliment that Douglas couldn't help smiling too. In spite of the interesting start, Douglas thought, today was going to be a good day.

Ooooooooo

By the time they were half way to Milan, Douglas was the only fan Hester had left. The woman had made too many complaints and demands to win any points with Carolyn and had fairly broken Arthur's heart when the silly boy had decided to tell her how much he loved _Quest for Camelot_, which Hester quite obviously and quite rightly despised. It was Martha, however, who had done the biggest u-turn. She had been excited about meeting the actress, envious of her looks and her talents, trying to explain to an unconvinced Douglas that Hester was a feminist icon because her Bond girl had spent as much time trying to shoot Bond as trying to sleep with him. When they first met she had been star struck and stammered, but then came the blow:

"_You're _the Captain?" Hester asked. "Goodness, you poor thing."

Followed by a private but highly audible conversation with Carolyn in the galley, in which Hester was quite clearly heard to say:

"But she's ridiculous. I thought this was a proper airline- is she even safe? She can't even fix her hair properly, I doubt she can fly a plane. Can't you get that man, the proper pilot, to do the flying?"

Martha's hands had tightened around the control column the entire time she was listening and by the end of it her opinion of Hester had lowered considerably. Douglas, on the other hand, found that she could be quite charming, when with the right person; such as him. She had come up to visit the flight deck and Martha, probably to demonstrate her flying skills, had allowed it. Hester was a woman who always said what she thought, knew what she wanted and knew how to get it. She would rub people the wrong way, but it didn't automatically make her a bad person. Douglas found her to be intelligent and rather witty and rather enjoyed their little chat. However, the moment the star returned to her seat, Douglas was treated to a despairing look from Martha.

"What?"

"You can't seriously like her, Douglas! She's awful!"

"Not to _me_. I thought she was rather lovely."

Martha snorted in a most unfeminine way. "Just because she's got legs the length of Scotland."

"Oh, so you noticed too, did you? Glad it isn't just me."

"Oh, so it doesn't matter that she has the personality of a viper as long as she's good to look at, I see." Martha sighed. "Even so, what about your girlfriend? Elise, was it?"

"Elaine. And it's not like that's anything serious. Not serious enough to miss out on flirting with a Bond girl for, anyway."

"You're incorrigible."

"Just because you're jealous." Douglas said, more to get a reaction than because he thought it was true. Martha, however, seemed to be seriously considering his words. This was an interesting development. Douglas waited for her to speak, not quite sure what he was thinking at that moment.

"I'm not as jealous as I thought I'd be." Martha said. "Or rather, I'm not as jealous now as I was. I mean, yes, she's prettier than I'll ever be, and she's actually, you know, well, _good _at what she does… and I bet nobody ever called her a _poor thing _or asked for a _proper _actress to play the part instead, I mean, I bet she never had to persuade her family that she _should _be an actress or convince anyone else that she _could_, but… for all that, she doesn't seem very happy. She doesn't seem like she really enjoys being an actress, does she? I could never be like that about flying. So no, I'm not jealous, not really." She paused, seemed to decide she had said everything she wanted to say on the subject, and gave the peculiar little nod of affirmation that so often marked the conclusion of her arguments.

What Douglas had actually meant to imply, of course, was that Martha was jealous he was not flirting with _her_; but after her little speech, he was too embarrassed to admit it. They flew on in silence. Douglas took control for something to do and instead of protesting Martha took her hands away from the console and started fiddling with her hair instead. Hester's comment had clearly bothered her more than she was letting on, she hadn't left it alone since. Hester did have a point though, the ginger locks were as untameable as ever, wisps and straggles hanging everywhere out of the bun despite it having enough hair grips in so that it resembled a pin cushion more than a hair style. With a few small grunts of pain, Martha began to remove them.

"It would be more manageable if you just cut it." Douglas said.

"Yes, but it would cost a fortune." Martha replied, speech slightly stunted as she tried to hold the grips in her mouth. "I'd rather buy food and tobacco."

Douglas would have replied but at that moment she removed the last pin and took her hand away from her hair to take them out of her mouth. Freed from restraint, her hair tumbled down her back. It was limp, of course, but it was long. Long and wavy, curly even, and altogether natural. She had neither curled it nor straightened it, just washed it and brushed it and been on her way and somehow, impossibly, hidden the curls from him all this time.

Douglas suddenly wanted nothing more than to twist his fingers into that hair in the throes of pantomime passion, in spite of the split ends and the places where it hung limply, he wanted to hold her curls between his fingers and had to hold onto the control column to stop himself from doing just that. Martha barely even paused before tidying her hair and putting it back up again, back into its customary _professional _bun. Douglas concentrated on flying the plane, not sure what had come over him.

He would persuade his captain to get a haircut, he decided, to have it cut and properly styled. The poor girl didn't have much to work with, she should make the best of what she had.

Ooooooooo

By the late afternoon, Martha's mood had brightened considerably. This was probably largely to do with the fact they had dispatched Hester into her fancy hotel and now had the rest of the day off. Hester had tried to persuade them to go with her, but Martha had taken undisguised pleasure in telling her that they weren't all spoilt princesses, that they didn't need to swap hotels just to impress her and that they would be quite happy in the Garibaldi without her. Douglas had thought this a touch harsh and almost felt sorry for Hester as they left her there getting in a rage. He wondered if the actress was lonely. Perhaps, if he played his cards right, he would get to go and visit her later on.

Martha didn't even seem to change her mind when she actually _saw _the Garibaldi. It was a horrible, squat little building that only had cold water and electricity only for a few hours in the evenings, which was rather unhelpful with Milan's dark nights. There was water running down the walls and leaking through the roof in the corner of Douglas' room, the curtain linings and ceilings were stained by decades of cigarette smoke (which he and Martha fully intended to add to; they would need it) and everything had a peculiar damp smell. Not that they were in their rooms for long, within a few minutes, before he even had time to finish the whisky he'd brought up from the bar, an over-eager Arthur and an excited Martha were knocking on his door, insisting he came sight-seeing with them. It was just a week before Christmas and neither of them had been to Italy before. With nothing better to do, Douglas agreed to escort them and they got bundled up into their coats and scarves, heading out onto the wintery streets.

"Ah, it's cold!" Martha said, pressing her mittened hands to her cheeks as she laughed happily. "But I can't believe I'm here, I've always wanted to go to Italy! Next time though, I hope someone books us for Paris!"

"Brilliant!" Arthur said. "There all the writing would be in French, but here it's all in Italian! Look at it!"

"Alright, alright you two, calm down." Douglas drawled. "Do we have to have this every time we do an international flight? You're supposed to be airline staff, do try to keep the giddy tourism to a minimum."

"Oh, don't be such a kill joy, Douglas." Martha said, in the oddest role reversal of all time. "You have to get into the spirit of things! But," and suddenly her voice dropped to a threatening whisper. "I do _not _want a repeat of Amsterdam. Arthur is _not _allowed anywhere near the bars, and if you dare buy him drinks again I swear I will tell Carolyn."

"Don't make such a fuss." Douglas replied. "I could have ten or eleven pints at a time by the time I was his age. It's part of becoming a man."

"Yes, well, you weren't the one sitting up with him all night while he vomited." Martha retorted. "I mean it, Douglas, _no _corrupting Arthur."

"Fine." Douglas sighed, and she smiled, linking an arm through his elbow, reaching forward and linking with Arthur on the other side.

"Let's see the city." She said, cheerily.

"Great! I want to see the coliseum."

"Sorry, Arthur, I think that's in Rome."

"Oh. Never mind, we can still see the Leaning Tower of Pisa."

"Um… no, that's in Pisa."

Douglas rolled his eyes. Never mind Arthur, he needed a drink himself.

"Let's find a bar." He said. Martha glared at him. "Just to warm up." He defended himself. "You two can have tea."

Martha rolled her eyes and sighed, which he took to be agreement. She broke the chain between them and they continued down the street together at a slow amble, pausing to look in the windows of the shops they passed, each displaying the latest fashions. Milan was a good city in which to be young and a pilot, Douglas decided. Milan had glamour, and it would accept nothing less.

His colleagues, unfortunately, did not seem to have noticed this. They were behaving like children on a school trip, loudly admiring the window displays.

"Wow, look at this one!" Arthur said. "Teddy bears!"

Douglas looked. There were indeed some teddy bears scattered artistically round the single mannequin that stood in the window, presumably to continue a theme from the fur wrap around the figure's shoulders; but the real focus was the dress. It was a thing of beauty, a deep, dark brown that wasn't quite black, probably silk, the long skirt slightly pleated around the waist where it was drawn in by a wide ribbon; there was a slight circular gap in the neckline just drawn together over the top, and the sleeves were made of some sort of semi-transparent material. It was lovely, of course; just what you would expect from Milan.

"_Oh_." Martha said, and Douglas knew she was thinking about Hester, and how she looked, and how Martha didn't; in spite of her not-jealous revelations from earlier in the day. Douglas couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for her.

"You could try it on." He suggested.

"Ha, don't be stupid. I could never afford it."

"You don't have to buy it, just try it on."

"Yes, go on Skip, I bet you'd look great!" Arthur tried.

"I just want to know whether she actually has any legs under those trousers." Douglas said.

"Both of you just be quiet." Martha said, starting to leave, but Douglas wasn't going to let it go that easily. He was genuinely curious now to see what his captain was capable of. He'd always seen her as a bit of a plain Jane, never thought of her as attractive, but perhaps she had more potential than he had first thought. The hair thing had unbalanced him. He was sure it was a one-off, a redeeming trait in a mediocre mix, but still. It couldn't hurt to check. He grabbed her arm and physically dragged her into the shop.

"Hello," He said loudly, though the shop was small and there was no-one else in it but them and two surly looking shop assistants. "My fiancée would like to try on that dress in the window, please."

"_Douglas_!" Martha hissed, though really, Douglas didn't know why she was surprised. Since Martha had the habit of introducing herself as a captain to all and sundry, Douglas had developed the habit of interrupting and introducing her as all manner of things; particularly when they were abroad and the staff were unlikely to understand what he meant. Really, she should have been glad of the times he remained relatively tame and introduced her as his wife, sister, stewardess or mistress, as opposed to _illegitimate daughter, secretary, personal prossie, his drug baron's wife _or _the bearded lady of MJN Air_. 

The shop assistants, pale and dressed in black, looked at them- particularly Martha- with raised eyebrows. It was true, Douglas supposed, that Martha did not look like their usual clientele. Still, by this time tomorrow they would be back in Fitton and frankly, Douglas couldn't care less what they thought. As they obviously hadn't understood his request he began gesturing back and forth between Martha and the dress in the window until one of them, with a bored smirk, went to fetch it; she and Douglas both ignoring Martha's furious protests. Unfortunately, Martha had obviously had enough because she pushed both him and Arthur out of the shop and, instructing them to wait in the bar a few doors down, closed the shop door on them.

Douglas hoped she would at least try the dress on, after they had been through all that trouble. Annoyed by her ingratitude, he decided to buy Arthur and himself some wine. After all, who wanted to drink soft drinks in Italy? Anyway, it was Christmas, it was the time for mulled wine.

But a few minutes later, Martha entered the bar with a bag from the shop. Douglas stared. If she had actually bought the dress, many of his opinions on her personality would have to be revised. If she had bought it, she wasn't entirely the type of woman he'd feared she was.

She hadn't bought it, of course. She had felt awkward and guilty about going in and not buying anything, so in the end after a lot of tricky gesturing had somehow managed to purchase three of the bears from the window display, one for each of them. She said they were Christmas presents.

Arthur was delighted. Douglas was not so, and tried to accidentally leave the soft toy behind when they left the bar, but Martha came after him with it, frowning.

"Douglas, come on, I look silly carrying two."

"Frankly I think we look ridiculous carrying one."

"Just take it!" She snapped, grinding the poor bear into his chest. "Don't you know it's rude to refuse a gift?" She seemed genuinely offended.

"Anyway," Arthur said helpfully, "They're cute! And there are three of them, like there's three of us, and there are three bears, so Douglas can have Daddy Bear, and Martha can have Mommy Bear, and I can have Baby Bear because I'm the youngest."

"What a horrifying thought." Douglas muttered, and Martha hummed her agreement. She took the bear away from his chest and with a sigh put it back into the bag from the shop, though she was still holding hers shoved carelessly under her arm.

Douglas suddenly felt a little left out.

"If it's in a bag I can carry it." He said, as carelessly as he could manage.

"I thought you didn't want it." Martha was sulking.

"I thought you said it was rude to refuse a gift. I could never be rude to a lady."

Martha snorted. "You're constantly rude to me."

"You constantly refuse to be a lady. I think buying teddy bears is the most feminine thing you've ever done." He held an arm out. "I feel I should take the bear to commemorate the occasion."

Martha sighed, rolled her eyes- she was doing that a lot- and handed the bag over.

Douglas privately thought he might pass it onto Elaine. He probably ought to at least think about giving her a gift.

Ooooooooo

One of the Garibaldi's many problems was that it did not have a restaurant. There was a bar of sorts, though highly inadequate in Douglas' eyes, but they did not serve any food. For that, they would have to search elsewhere. Most patrons used a restaurant just around the back of the place, connected by an alleyway to the side of the hotel. Douglas was not exactly looking forward to the undoubtedly quality fare, but he was hungry and ready to eat. The only problem was, Martha was taking ages to get ready and eventually sent the two of them on ahead of her. She was probably trying to fix her hair again, Hester's comment seemed to have really bothered her. Douglas wished she had just tried the dress on, if only to restore her confidence a little.

Still, he thought with some annoyance, it was Martha's own fault if she wasn't confident about her looks. The woman never wore make up, insisted on doing a man's job, lived in trousers and wouldn't even pay for a haircut. Maybe she needed someone to tell things how they were. Then again, Douglas would rather people didn't if it made them late for dinner. He sat in the restaurant drinking a decidedly tepid beer in a foul temper, tapping his cigarette out into the ashtray with more vigour than really necessary. If she took any longer, he decided, they would order without her.

He heard the scream first, but he didn't realise it was her, looking stupidly towards the wall that would make the side of the alley. Then he heard shouting; the words indistinct but definitely English, definitely female, definitely Martha's voice. He and Arthur were both getting to their feet without a word passing between them; they heard her crying out in pain and they ran across the restaurant, towards the door. Douglas found he was cursing everything that stood in their way- the wall, the fact the only exit to the restaurant was on the far side, the diners who blinked stupidly at them, the ridiculously cramped table arrangement that meant they had to weave and wind their way to the door, the fact that nobody else, seated further away, seemed to have heard, that none of them were _helping_- Douglas felt the cold bite of the outside air as he forced his way through the door with relief, turning to run around to the side of the building. Arthur was right behind him, slipping slightly on the ice, but he was a good lad and didn't lose his balance or pause for a second. They were steps away from the corner when two men ran out of the alley; Douglas grabbed at them and they yelled in fear but slipped out of his grip, Arthur went for them and missed, and Douglas cursed but decided to leave them, more concerned about what state they were going to find Martha in.

He needn't have worried, she came out of the alley a moment later, looking furious.

"I'm calling the police, you hear?!" She shouted, breathless with exertion. "I'm calling the police and they'll catch you and… and… so there!"

"Martha, are you alright?" Douglas said, putting a hand on her arm. She was trembling, though whether it was out of rage or fear or both, he couldn't tell. Thankfully, she seemed mostly unhurt, apart from a small bruise and graze just above her right eye. Someone had hit her, someone had punched her in the face. Two men had seen her alone in a dark alleyway, just a slip of a girl, and they had hit her. He felt an ugly anger uncurling in his gut, but he tried to ignore it. For the moment, getting angry wouldn't help matters. "What happened?"

"They took my handbag!" Martha said, outraged. "They were trying to grab it, so I was trying to pull it back and then one of them hit me and I let go of it and they ran off!"

"You idiot! You moronic girl!" The anger would no longer be ignored. "How can you be such a fool?! They might have killed you!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't exactly have much choice, this is the only way to get to-"

"I'm not talking about going down the alley! Why didn't you just let them take the stupid bag?!"

"I wasn't about to just let them run off with it!" Martha replied, wincing as she felt the wound on her forehead, accidentally smearing blood over the pale skin. "It has my passport and my pilot's license in there, and- oh, no, oh, no; they've got my passport and my license! How am I going to get home?! If I don't have my license I can't fly, if I don't have my passport I can't get through customs… what am I going to do? My license was in there…"

"It'll be alright, Skip!" Arthur said, in his most comforting voice, taking her hand and leading her towards the restaurant. "We'll sort it out, don't worry. Let's just go back inside first and… and see if they can make you a nice cup of tea."

"Yes, Arthur," Douglas said, handing Martha his handkerchief and indicating she should use it on her forehead. "They can make it, and then throw it out and bring her a brandy instead."

"No, no, I'm fine." Martha said, although she was clearly shaken. "I just want to go back to the hotel and call the police. Oh, but they won't speak English, will they? Maybe I should call the embassy. Is there even an embassy in Milan? I don't know where to start…"

She continued to ramble as they walked back to the hotel and Douglas let her, largely tuning it all out. He felt restless with anger, his fingers kept clenching and unclenching, though he wasn't sure how much of the anger was directed at her assailants and how much at himself. He kept thinking of his father who, after the war, had gone back into the police force. He always said he joined the police for the same reason he'd joined the forces; because he wanted the streets to be safe for his wife and his daughters, and other men's wives and daughters, to walk down. He would have been ashamed of Douglas; and Douglas felt the wound almost as if his father was here and actually telling him off. He would have asked some difficult questions about why Martha had been left to go down a dark alley in an unfamiliar city alone, about why Douglas hadn't been there to stop the punches and save the day; about why, just because he didn't think of her as a girl, Douglas so completely ignored the fact she _was _one.

He wanted to apologise, he wanted to make it right; but Martha would have just been offended. She was a modern woman, a _captain_, she didn't _need _protecting or saving; she would chase and argue with her attackers, even though they could have pulled out a knife and killed her. He was angry with her, too. She was a damn fool. If he couldn't apologise for not being there, perhaps he would try telling her that again.

He went on in silence.

They reached the hotel and without any further ado, Martha went to the desk asking to use the telephone, mostly through pointing and mime; it was pointless to try using English in these places with the lower staff. Happily, at that moment, the manager- who they knew to have a smattering of English; at least far more than they had Italian- emerged.

"I need to use the telephone, please!" Martha demanded.

"Yes, your family must be wait." He said. "You had the message given?"

"What? What about my family? What message?" Beneath the purpling, yellow bruise and the small amount of red blood, Martha was turning even paler. Arthur squeezed her hand reassuringly.

"Your mother made telephone called about ten minutes before now. She said it made much importance if you called back."

"Right, um, I'll call her first then." Martha said, looking more flustered than ever and going over to the phone. "Can I get a plaster for my head, please? A sticking plaster? For this, see? Yes, thank you." The man bustled away and she began dialling. Douglas loitered awkwardly with Arthur, hoping everything was alright; fearing it wasn't- but a crisis at home was really the last thing Martha needed now.

"Hello? Simon? What are you doing at mum's? What? Why has she- What?" Martha fell silent for a long time. To Douglas' alarm, her eyes were filling with tears. "He can't have, he was fine when I left! He… he… oh, no. Oh, Simon, I… my passport. My passport was stolen, I won't be able to… No, not yet, I had to call you first. I… I'll do my best. No, no, look, you just go, I'll… I'll get home as soon as I can, or, or, call you tomorrow. Yes, good bye. Simon! Just… just give him my love, okay? I'm sorry. And mum, too. Goodbye."

She hung up slowly, but didn't take her hand away, leaning on the desk with the other and playing with the plaster the manager had left out for her. Her eyes were somewhere far away, still full of tears.

"Skipper? Are you okay?" Arthur asked, tentatively.

She wasn't okay, not in the slightest. Her family had called to tell her that her father was ill and had been rushed to hospital. He had the cancer, advanced cancer, and he hadn't even told any of them he'd been unwell. The shock was the worst thing. She was going over and over it, trying to work it out, thinking she should have noticed some sign, refusing to believe otherwise. He wasn't expected to last the night, and they weren't due to go home until the morning.

She kept pressing the balls of her hands into her eyes, trying desperately not to cry.

"You'll make it, Martha." Douglas said, firmly. "We'll clear it all with Carolyn and we'll go to the airport and have you on a flight home before you know it."

"But I don't even have my passport! I didn't trust the staff here, I thought it would be safer in my bag! I thought… I thought…"

"Martha, don't worry, we'll sort it out. You go and pack your things, we'll contact the police and the embassy. Leave it with me. Just go and get yourself ready."

Martha nodded mutely and went, Douglas putting out an arm to stop Arthur from going with her; suspecting she needed a little time alone. As soon as she had disappeared, he turned towards the exit.

"Wait here, Arthur. Call your mum, tell her what's happened; and if Martha hasn't come back down go up and check on her. I'll be back soon."

Arthur shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot. "You're going to find those men, aren't you? You're going to get her bag and her passport and everything back. I want to help."

"Arthur, I don't know what's going to happen. I don't know where I'll find them or if they'll be alone; it might be dangerous. It could turn into a fist fight."

"I know." Arthur said, hesitantly. "But… she needs to go and see her father. And they hurt her. And… she's my captain too."

Douglas nodded and lead the way. Arthur was right; Martha was their captain. However many disagreements they had on the flight deck, outside of the plane, a flight crew was a family; and if you messed with one of them, you messed with all of them. These men- and Douglas suspected he knew who they were- had hurt their captain, and if Arthur wanted to come and help him deal with them, he had every right to.

"But Douglas… where are we going?" Arthur asked.

"Where else?" He replied, wondering if it really was only obvious to him. "We're going to the Excelsior."

Ooooooooo

Just over an hour later, Douglas knocked on Martha's door and waited a few moments while she audibly sniffed inside the room before opening the door. Her eyes were rimmed red, she had been crying- quite understandably, given the circumstances. Douglas could think of no better comfort than wordlessly holding out her handbag to her, the strap swinging slightly in his fingers. Martha gaped and took it.

"My bag! Where did you find it?!"She said, searching through it. She looked ready to sob with relief when she pulled out her passport, safe and unharmed.

Now Douglas could have told her the truth. He could have told her how he and Arthur had tracked down the horde of knights camping outside the Excelsior, how after a minor scuffle and a little _gentle persuasion _they had got them to admit that they had taken the bag. He believed them when they said they hadn't _meant _to hurt her, they had just wanted the bag because they'd hoped that there would be details of Hester's hotel booking inside, which indeed there were. They had been extremely apologetic, particularly when Douglas had pinned their leader to the wall by the neck and explained quite graphically what he would do to them if they ever tried something like this again. They had even given up the bag without further protest. And they said gallantry was dead.

It hadn't exactly been difficult; Douglas had been in more difficult fights on the school yard. They were all cowards, though he had expected nothing less from men that waited to ambush young women round the back of hotels. He had told them they did not deserve their armour and felt ridiculous saying it, but it was the worst insult he could think of at the time. They seemed to take his words to heart- or they were just frightened- because they all fled and dispersed. At least Hester would be happy. Yet Hester's happiness was not Douglas' primary concern just then.

Of course, he didn't tell Martha any of this. Taking Arthur to engage in a spot of fisticuffs had to be worse than taking him into a bar, surely, and he didn't think the Captain would approve. They told her they'd found the bag abandoned in a dustbin not far from the restaurant. Martha looked at them quizzically, clearly deciding whether or not to believe them.

"Hmm." She said, stepping forward to readjust Douglas' tie, which had admittedly gone a bit skewwhiff since a man in cardboard armour had decided to hang off it. "And I suppose the dustbin gave you a bit of trouble, did it, given that you're both in such disarray?"

"No!" Arthur said, not sounding terribly convincing. "We just… we fell over."

"I see. And did you fall… into somebody?" She asked, smoothing Douglas' tie down and moving to examine Arthur's scraped knuckles.

"No, no, just… the pavement…"

"Well, thank you." She said, shortly. "Really, thank you, I… I just hope I get there in time." She scrubbed her eyes again and turned back into her room to fetch her other bags. "Arthur, be a dear and go down to the desk for me. Get them to call a taxi to the airport, straight away."

"Righto, Skip." Seemingly relieved to get away from his interrogation, Arthur bounded away. Douglas hovered awkwardly. He was fine when there was something practical he could do to help, but offering words of comfort was not his strong point.

"I hope you didn't get him into too much trouble." Martha said after a moment. "He follows you too much."

"I don't know what you mean." Douglas said staunchly.

"Yes, well, look after him. And don't drink too much before you fly home tomorrow." She said, barking off orders in her usual way. Then she hesitated, and awkwardly stepped closer to him. "You've… you've been a real friend to me today, Douglas." She said. "I won't forget it. Thank you." She stood up on her toes and pressed her lips to his cheek. Douglas found he couldn't reply; if he had been a true friend to her, or even if he had just done his duty as a man, he wouldn't have let this happen to begin with. The last thing she needed right then, however, was his guilt on top of everything else. So he simply smiled, accepting the compliment he wasn't sure was deserved.

She wouldn't let them come to the airport with her, although they wanted to. When they got back to Fitton the next day, landing awkwardly on a run way that had only been half cleared of snow, Carolyn told them that Martha's father had died during the night, with the entire family by his side. At least Martha had made it.

It was a few days before Christmas and they didn't have any more flights until the New Year. He would have to get hold of her number and give Martha a call before then. There was something strangely lonely about smoking on his own before he left the airfield that day.

Ooooooooo

It was Christmas Eve and Douglas was drunk. So was Elaine. Not as drunk as they intended to be by the end of the night, they had a Party 7 or two to get through after this, but they liked to stop for a rest and get down to business in the middle. They were on his settee in the dark, the national anthem had just played out and switched over to the test card on the television. The only lights were the ones he'd put around the tree, which caught on the tinsel and sent reflections all over the ceiling, like living in the world's most stationary disco. He gently rearranged them both, lying her back on the cushions, not breaking their kiss. He could taste the alcohol on her lips and tongue- or perhaps they were just on his.

He had told Elaine all about how he had flown Hester Macauley. Elaine had been jealous of Hester. Elaine wanted to have those looks and those legs and the fame and fortune. Of course she did, all women did. Even Martha probably did, deep down, whatever she had said about happiness and job satisfaction in her little speech. She must have done, surely. Then again, Martha was not like most women Douglas knew. He could not, for example, imagine Elaine explaining the same reasons not to be jealous, or leaving the house with her hair unstyled, or wearing trousers basically anywhere. The very idea made him laugh drunkenly, he had to break away from the kiss, pecking her lips again as he went. Elaine would have loved Milan. She loved fashion, not like Martha, who always looked as if she had simply thrown together the first outfit that came to hand. Sometimes, when Douglas was undressing Elaine, he felt like he could just keep going, stripping away layer after layer of handbags and glad rags until he finally found there was nothing at all inside them. He laughed again, kissed her again.

"You really are drunk." She laughed. "What's so funny, huh? Are we going to do it or not?"

"Yes, I have a theory to test about you." Douglas replied, kissing her neck to shut her up and reaching around to try and find the zip on the back of her dress. For a moment she went along with it, but then she pushed him off her with a sigh and sat up, holding her dress up as she fumbled to redo the zip.

"We need to talk." She said, not looking at him, taking the half-finished cigarette he'd left in the ash tray and lighting it.

"What about?" Douglas' heart was sinking. Elaine had never been the talking kind.

"What do you think?" She said, irritably. "I'm pregnant, aren't I?"

"Are you sure?" Douglas asked. He didn't mean to. It slipped out before he realised. His mind had been slowed by the alcohol and now it was frozen, not even the most sluggish movement emerging. She couldn't be pregnant. She couldn't be.

"Don't be a dickhead, Douglas." Elaine said, irritably.

Douglas was still awake at midnight, looking at Elaine's back as she lay next to him in bed; fully dressed because for once they hadn't touched each other. She had never actually stayed the night before; he wondered if this meant she was moving in. He supposed she would.

He had to marry her, of course. He could hear his father again, just as clearly as if he had called his parents to tell them- _do the decent thing_, his father would say. _You must do the decent thing_. And Douglas would, of course he would, and perhaps, just perhaps, it would all work out alright.

He was not as drunk as he wished he was. He got up, going to the kitchen for a shot of, well, almost anything. It had just passed midnight; Christmas morning. There was a Christmas card from Martha hanging with the others on a string across his kitchen wall, wishing him a Merry Christmas. That seemed unlikely. He wondered if Martha was still awake. He wondered if she missed her father. The bear she had bought him was wrapped up under the tree, intended as a gift for Elaine, but on impulse he took it out and shoved it in a cupboard. Perhaps he would give it to the baby when it was born, but for some reason, he just didn't want Elaine to have it. She couldn't have it.

He poured a whiskey and downed it in one. Merry Christmas, indeed.


	4. Blackpool

A/N: I… really have no excuses for why this took so long. I don't even know _why _it took so long, I tried to work on it every day; I just didn't seem to make too much progress. I can only apologise and say I'll try to do better next time!

Also, this chapter is just a pile of angst. In the show I get the impression Douglas is a man who has sobered up and gone straight after the mistakes of a wayward youth; and in this story he's still in his twenties, he's still making those mistakes. Fun to write though!

(Oh, also also, I went to Blackpool for a conference recently and met one of the guys who does Yu-Gi-Oh GX Abridged. I've seen him in panels at Alcon, was so weird to have him serve me breakfast XD Anyway…)

Chapter Four- Blackpool

He was going to be well and truly late. Carolyn had requested that they all arrived promptly at nine-thirty on the dot, and now it was twenty to ten. Douglas wasn't in a hurry, though; the orchestra they were flying to Gdansk wouldn't be arriving for at least another half an hour and anyway, he was already at the airfield. He just hadn't got as far as the portacabin, sitting wrapped up in his car instead, running the heater full blast without any regard for the fuel he was wasting. It would be warmer than the portacabin, which was draughty and heated only by an ancient and highly insufficient old coke boiler. It had been one of the worst winters Douglas could remember, and as January started to make way for February to arrive, it didn't show much sign of changing. The snow had melted, but frost still clung to car and cobble every morning and that day there was a dreadfully bitter Northern wind stabbing icy fingers through every crack and crevice. The airfield was, of course, horrifically exposed and Douglas had absolutely no desire to cross it, not yet. He sat in his car, bracing himself to face the elements, flicking the corners of the two crisp white envelopes in his hands. One was addressed to Carolyn and Arthur, the other to Martha. Douglas didn't really see why he couldn't have just asked them but Elaine was very much one for 'making the best of a bad situation' and when it came to _her _wedding, things were going to be done properly.

Douglas hadn't even told anyone at work that he was engaged yet. Somehow the subject just hadn't come up. He had been in two minds about inviting them to the wedding, but he liked a good party and, after all, the more the merrier. Besides, he hadn't yet seen Martha drunk, and he thought it could turn out to be rather interesting. Anyway, he had a perpetually single cousin he rather wanted to introduce to his perpetually single captain. His cousin, Bernard, wasn't too fussy and his captain was desperate, so he had hopes for the two of them. He decided he would do his best to have them seated next to each other at the reception. It wouldn't do him any harm to do a little match making now he himself was off the market. He had to get his fun somewhere.

He gripped the steering wheel tightly as the ominous feelings of foreboding gripped him again. He had to remind himself why he was doing this, why it was the only thing he could do- he had to do the decent thing, the right thing. He had finally told his family the previous week about the pregnancy and his impending nuptials and his parents had quietly accepted it. It was the right thing to do; it was the only thing to do. His mother had already got out her knitting needles and had begun working on things for the baby. They wanted to meet Elaine, but Douglas was trying to stall that for as long as he could. She just wasn't the sort of woman you could take over to Sunday lunch with your parents, particularly not when your parents had adored your first wife.

Then again, Douglas had adored his first wife. It had been hard not to adore Veronica, who, to begin with, was incredibly attractive with an ample chest and a deep, smoky laugh that had made his stomach turn over. She had laughed often and was constantly on the go; the sort of woman who wanted to see everything, do everything. He'd met her on the day he got his license, in a bar when he had gone out to celebrate and he had heard of all the places she wanted to travel to and all the things she wanted to see before she even let him guess her name over the last of their gin and tonics. Their courtship had never been idle, they always had to be out somewhere, doing something; he had felt like he would have followed her to the ends of the earth. The romance was a whirlwind one, love at first sight; he used to buy her flowers before every date. He had loved the way she moved, the way she talked, he worshipped the very ground she walked on and after a month, after he had made love to her for the first time in her parents' summer house (she had always wanted to do so; it was a novel experience for them both) he had asked her to marry him and been convinced, entirely convinced, that she was the love of his life and would be for the rest of his life. His parents had liked her, but they had advised him against getting married so soon and so young, but Douglas had been convinced they were wrong. He had wanted to show the world Veronica was his.

Married life had been very different, of course. At first it had been fine, but as time went on they got to know each other better and began to find there wasn't much they had in common. He had been blind to it at the time, but looking back on it, there was little about her to miss. Veronica began to resent all the time she had alone at home while he was away on trips and Douglas hated that he could never have a quiet day in; all his days off she wanted to be out and about, doing things, never the same thing twice, too easily bored by routine. They didn't have the money to support the lifestyle. His faith hadn't wavered, however. There were still good days, he was sure things would get better or they'd find a new routine; even after three years of an increasingly rocky relationship he had still been sure of it, naively thinking marriage was for life.

He had realised she didn't feel the same the day he finished repainting their kitchen walls in pea green, at her request, and she didn't bother to start stencilling it. He had told her she could. She told him there was no point, that they _weren't working_. She wanted to travel, to see the world, she couldn't keep watching him go without her just because he was 'lucky' enough to be a pilot. So she had left. The divorce had been amicable in its way, after the initial rows and hurts. They were still in touch occasionally now; she had settled down a year or two ago with a man she had met in Mumbai, they were expecting their second child. Perhaps being in a mixed-race relationship in one of the less tolerant areas of Coventry was enough of a challenge to satisfy her constant need for adventure, or perhaps age and experience had calmed her. Douglas was pleased she was happy, of course, but it didn't change the fact that the time she left had been his first real heart break and sworn him off long term relationships, he thought for good. It was only recently that he had begun to think about trying it again, finding some nice girl he could commit to and take seriously, only recently he had started to think perhaps he wanted something that was more than just a bit of fun to kill time.

But he hadn't wanted that with Elaine. If he was honest, no, he didn't want that with Elaine. The first thoughts of breaking it off had been stirring, but it had been Christmas, it had seemed too unkind, and Martha had just lost her father which made him want to hold onto people, and he had put off thinking about it until the New Year- and then she was pregnant, and he was stuck. He had always wanted kids. Three years with Veronica and they'd never had children; if they had, perhaps things would have been different, although he didn't think so. It had taken a long time, but he no longer loved her; his love was an old wound, incomprehensible to him now, and the relationship would have weighed on him- they had been ill suited to each other. The problem was, he didn't love Elaine either.

He had to try, though. He _liked _the girl, he had to do his best to love her now. She was going to be his wife, the mother to his child; he owed his love to them. He had to get serious, and to accept there could never be anyone else.

Sometimes, when he was drunk, he felt peculiarly trapped by life. The feeling came again now, like a vice on his ribs. He lit a cigarette. He wanted to breathe. He always felt guilty now if he smoked in front of Martha, who had quit when her father had died. It had taken a few weeks of frayed nerves and irritability, but finally she seemed to have overcome the withdrawal. To Douglas, she didn't look right without a cigarette in her hand, and he rather missed smoking together, but what could he do but be outwardly supportive? Inwardly, however, he thought it was nonsense; surely smoking now couldn't do her any more harm than it already had. When he finished the cigarette, he tossed it out of the car window and got out, grinding it with the toe of his boot. It was about time he got to work. Turning his collar up against the icy wind, he hurried over to the office with more than his usual eagerness.

It was draughty as ever, the boiler doing little to warm the shack through, although it made it smell like the previous century. Arthur had the little door to it open as Douglas entered, attempting to get a little more heat out of it by rearranging the remaining pieces of coal with a poker. It was a futile effort, but the boy never seemed to mind. Of course, it was a novelty to him, used only to electric heaters and proper central heating. Ever since he had started at MJN, Arthur had taken full responsibility of the little boiler and the coal scuttle, which he had painted one afternoon while they were on standby to look like a blue sky, dotted with white clouds and little aeroplanes. It was quite artistic and brightened up the otherwise bare room, with its grey plywood walls and nothing but a noticeboard and the wall chart to liven it up. Martha was sitting at her desk, furiously jabbing at MJN's shared type writer, copying out some of her notes. Patting Arthur companionably on the back as he passed, Douglas sauntered over to Martha's desk.

"Good morning Captain." He said cheerfully. "Hard at work as ever, I see. Unless you're typing out your letters of burning love and raging passion, in which case, I would just as happily accept it hand written."

She looked up at him, frowning. There was a clatter as Arthur dropped the poker in alarm. The poor boy really was besotted with her, which gave the happy outcome that Douglas was able to tease them both simultaneously. After a cursory glance in Arthur's direction to make sure that he hadn't let any stray pieces of burning coal out onto the dusty floor, Martha returned her attention to Douglas.

"No, I'm working." She said. "As you should be. You're thirty-five minutes late. Carolyn will kill you."

"_Terribly _sorry, Captain, there's a lot on my mind."

"Maybe, but that apparently doesn't include getting to work on time."

"Oh, relax, the Fitton Philharmonic haven't arrived yet, have they?"

"No, but their instruments did."

Douglas suppressed a nod. He had seen a van being driven carefully into the airfield and rather thought that was what it was. He tried to look surprised. "Oh dear. Did you manage to get them loaded okay?"

"Don't worry, Douglas!" Arthur interjected. "I did all the heavy lifting."

"Excellent work, Arthur." Douglas said, and the boy beamed. As far as Douglas was concerned, Arthur's disproportionate amount of pleasure at the compliment more than made up for any inconvenience the extra share of work would have caused him. Martha sighed and returned to her typewriter, clearly deciding not to contest it, as no doubt Carolyn would have a few choice words to say to him later. Then again, Carolyn wasn't here either. "And where is your mother?"

"Oh, she's just gone over to the Airfield Manger's office."

"What have we done now?" Douglas asked, wondering if the police had been asking questions about the slightly-illegal bar that operated out of one of the old hangers. He hoped not. Wednesday nights were happy hour. "Whatever it is, it was nothing to do with me." Martha scoffed but said nothing, so it was Arthur who answered.

"No, no, nothing like that Douglas, mum just wanted to use the phone. This orchestra has some very funny special requirements, so mum's going to ring him to find out what the hell- I mean, to try and find out how to make our auras more orange and things."

"Am I to take it from that that our telephone is broken, again?" Douglas asked, deciding he didn't need to know about orange auras and lazily leaning over Martha to see what she was typing. She swatted him away irritably, though it looked more like accounts than love letters. Her occupations, as always, were infinitely too masculine.

"No, no, the phone is fine." Arthur said. "But the line that comes out to the portacabin has snapped."

"It's this weather." Martha added, trying to shake some warmth back into her fingers. "The weight of the ice on it snapped the cable overnight."

"Only because the lines, much like everything else here, is ancient." Douglas pointed out, knocking one of the walls affectionately, listening to the hollow sound. If the wind got up any more, they would soon start creaking with it. "Including our plane. You'd better let me operate out, Martha, you'd never get us into the air with this cross wind to contend with."

"Well, I am operating out, actually, and I think you'll find I'll be absolutely fine!"

"Do you think," Arthur interrupted, although whether it was to diffuse the tension or out of a genuine desire to ask the question Douglas couldn't hazard to guess, "That if the wind blows hard enough, all the clarinets and oboes and things will start playing?"

"No, Arthur, I don't. That would be ridiculous." He said, feeling too out of sorts to humour the steward today, and judging by Martha's silence and brisk typing, she didn't either. Arthur looked chastened and went back to stoking the boiler in silence. At that moment, Carolyn finally returned.

"Well, it seems the 'special requirements' are non-negotiable." She said, clearly in as bad temper as the rest of them. "Honestly, all this nonsense about who can sit where and by who, who can't sit by someone else, who must be given booze, who can't be given booze, it's absurd! And as for all this aura guff, well, I'd had enough of that ten years ago! You'd think we were flying the CND, not the CFCO! Damn hippies."

"What's the CFCO?" Arthur asked.

"Coventry and Fitton Chamber Orchestra, Arthur. They're our passengers." Martha replied.

"Oh. But Douglas called them-"

"Never mind what Douglas called them."

"Okay." Arthur paused, and for a beautiful moment Douglas thought he might be quiet, but it wasn't to be. "What's the CND?"

"Oh, for goodness' sake." Carolyn snapped. "Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament! Don't you ever watch the news?"

"Sorry, mum."

"Ignore her, Arthur." Martha, as always, was the first to capitulate to his sad face. Or perhaps she just agreed with the cause of the CND and was offended to hear them dismissed as _hippies_. Douglas wouldn't have put it past her. "They haven't really done anything since '63, '64. You would only have been, what, five or six? It's no wonder you don't remember."

"Mm, and we weren't much older." Douglas added, always happy to rub his relative youth in his boss' face. "I did go on the last of the proper Aldermaston Marches in 1963, though. I was quite the politician as a teenager."

"Really?" Martha looked shocked. "I was there too!"

"No! Really?"

"Wow!" Arthur said. "Maybe you met while you were there and you just don't remember it!"

"Maybe." Douglas replied. "Martha, when we got up to London, you weren't in the group throwing stones at Parliament, were you?"

"No, I ducked out before the end, I thought it might kick off. Wait, you weren't, were you?"

"We-ell-"

"Alright, that's enough!" Carolyn snapped. "All of you shut absolutely up and make yourselves useful. Go and do the walk around, I want to be underway the moment the Paranoia Ensemble arrive. The sooner we get them off Gerti the better."

"Paranoia ensemble?" Arthur repeated. "I thought they were called… what was it? CFND?"

"Out!" Carolyn repeated, holding the door open for them to emphasise her point. She scowled as the wind rattled it in her hand. "You'd better let Douglas do the take off, Martha, this cross wind is dreadful."

"What?! Carolyn-"

"Now!"

Douglas smirked to himself. If he couldn't knock Carolyn from the top of the pile, at least Martha made sure he wasn't at the bottom. Still, she was practically pouting, obviously going into one of her _But_ _I'm the Captain _sulks. Douglas decided it was time for a policy of appeasement. He pulled the white envelopes out of his jacket pocket, realising Elaine would have huffed and puffed if she saw the bent corners, but feeling no desire to try and smooth them out. "One moment, Carolyn." He said, smoothly. "I have something for you all." He handed the two envelopes to the two women. Martha ran her fingers over the cursive, mystified, as Arthur peered over Carolyn's shoulder.

"What's this, Douglas?" Martha asked, turning it over to pull it open.

"I'm sorry to break your heart, Martha." He said carelessly, trying to sound jovial, trying to sound like this was exactly what he wanted. "But I'm afraid I'm getting married and you're all invited."

For a moment they looked at him in surprise, then they began to smile. Even Carolyn.

"Well, I thought you'd been put off marriage for life after last time." She said. She had heard a little about Veronica's short comings when she had asked him to explain his dismissal from Air England. "Good for you, Douglas, do try to keep hold of this one."

"That's brilliant news, Douglas!" Arthur said, predictably enthusiastic. He began chattering away nineteen to the dozen, asking endless questions about his bride to be and what the wedding was going to be like. He didn't seem to require any answers and if he was expecting them he didn't give Douglas any chance to supply them, so Douglas let him ramble on as they headed out across the chilly concourse towards Gerti. Martha hadn't managed to get a word in edgeways yet, although she had exchanged several exasperated looks with Douglas. Finally, she gave up waiting for Arthur and squeezed his elbow.

"Congratulations." She said quietly, smiling. "I'm pleased for you."

Douglas believed her, that was the worst thing. She was pleased; which only served to make him realise how much he wasn't.

Oooooooooooooo

He hadn't meant to be spiteful. He had no right to be, really, his co-workers had all been wonderfully supportive and kind; genuinely delighted at his news. But there were only so many questions he could handle, only so long he could behave as if he was as delighted at the prospect as them. Douglas had hoped that if he _acted _pleased, then eventually he would feel it. So far, it hadn't worked; his walk to the alter felt like the final steps to his execution. He was drinking too much, he knew, Martha had raised her eyebrows when he'd had Arthur replace his mid-flight coffee with some whiskey, but it was easier to focus on the positives through a pleasantly alcoholic haze. It should be a good party, and Elaine was beautiful, and he wouldn't mind having a kid. Maybe it would be fine. Maybe it would even be good.

But he didn't want to think about it anymore today. Carolyn and Arthur had been frequenting the flight deck, trying to avoid the Orchestra Neurotic, so Douglas had tried to up the ante of the games, tried to persuade them to bet. When Martha refused and Carolyn had forbidden Arthur from participating, he had rather sulkily resorted to winning as smugly as possible; managing to at least claim some cheeses and some desserts. Martha had looked so put out by that point that he had finally realised he was being a little bit petty and assisted her to a (second place) victory in listing the seven dwarves. She reeled them off over the intercom and then sat back in her chair with a happy sigh, sparing only the briefest curious glance over her shoulder at the distant sounds of chaos from the cabin. She shrugged at Douglas.

"Sounds like they're having fun back there."

"Mm." He said. "It's at times like this that I'm reminded of how glad I am that I'm a pilot. Nice and insulated from the general public. And you have the authority. Nobody wants to upset the people in charge of _not _crashing them into the ground at top speed."

"Maybe with you." Martha said, good naturedly for once. She really _was _disproportionately pleased for him. "Nobody even _believes _I'm the Captain, let alone respects my authority."

"And they never will." Douglas said, continuing her cheerful tone. She sighed.

"Maybe I should just cut my hair and pretend to be a man."

"Don't be silly, _Marvin_." He replied. "Even if you were a man, I assure you that I, along with the general public, would not feel any more respect for you as a Captain than I do now."

"Yes, alright, thank you." She huffed, clearly not missing the double-nature of his supposed compliment. They fell into silence. Martha began humming a Bowie tune under her breath, just to fill it- they so rarely had silence on the flight deck, it was never comfortable and it never lasted long, unless they had disagreed and were both refusing to be the first to speak. It didn't happen often. Usually they just kept right on arguing until they had accidentally jollied themselves out of it. It didn't work like that with Elaine. She wouldn't argue with him at all, just go off in a sulk and ignore whatever he had said, doing what she wanted regardless if she could, or treating him coldly until one or the other of them forgot about it. Douglas wasn't sure if that was better or worse.

"What does that mean, anyway?" Martha asked suddenly.

"What does what mean?"

"That line. _See the mice in their million hoardes from Ibiza to the Norfolk Broads_." She sang the catch, not too badly. "It doesn't make sense."

"It's not supposed to." Douglas answered. "The whole song doesn't make sense. It's just images. It's a girl at a cinema comparing it to her life."

"Oh." Martha sounded surprised. "Must be a very odd film."

Douglas couldn't help but laugh. His captain was so wonderfully literal sometimes. He suddenly realised this was the first time had laughed- genuinely at least- in weeks. The wedding preparations had seen to that, that laughter was fewer and further between. Elaine had moved in, and work was often more fun than home at that point. Everything was so rushed. They had to marry before she was showing. There was no time to talk, no time to think, they just had to keep going, on and on, at collision speed. It felt as if the plane were crashing to the ground; and he had to be pretending to enjoy it.

"I'm looking forward to this wedding, you know." Martha said, when Douglas made the mistake of letting them lapse into silence again. "I love weddings. Well, you have to, when there's no chance of ever having your own."

"Don't talk rot." Douglas had no patience for her lack of self-confidence today. "You'll find somebody."

"I won't though." She insisted. "Even if I _do _meet somebody, they find out I'm a captain and then they're put off." She shot him a sideways look, clearly wondering whether or not to continue. "I think they find it intimidating."

"You don't have to tell them you're a captain, you know." He said, exasperated. "Can't you tell them you're something more… feminine? Tell them you're a florist, or a stewardess."

"Why should I?" She retorted, irritably, though she didn't sound entirely sure of herself. "I worked hard to get where I am, I should be proud of it. Anyway, if they can't cope with a woman being in a position of authority then I'm not sure I want to be with them at all."

"Hmm." Douglas said, unconvinced. "Be that as it may, it would help if you would at least _dress _a bit more like a woman. You will wear a dress to my wedding?" It wasn't a question, not really.

"Yes, yes, I'm not that bad." She huffed.

"In that case, my dear Captain, I might hold the answers to your dating woes. Also at my wedding will be-"

"Oh, Douglas, _no_, no match making." She groaned. "I just want a nice, natural way to meet people, not to be forced on them at a wedding."

"But you'll _like _Bernard!" Douglas said indignantly. "He's devilishly handsome, obscenely rich and perhaps best of all in your case, desperate."

"What's wrong with him, then?"

"What? Nothing."

"If he's as rich and handsome as all that and he's not married, there must be _something _wrong with him." Martha returned.

"Oh. Well, the thing is, in spite of all his money, he seems to think that it's main function is to decorate his bank account."

"Ah."

"He is the world's biggest miser. Begrudges every penny. I think most women dump him when they discover that he lives in a one-bedroom flat." He looked snidely at her. "But I don't suppose you'll mind. It has to be a step up from _Miss Havisham's Home for Spinsters._"

"It's _Mrs Harvington's Boarding House for Single Young Ladies_!" Martha said, looking embarrassed all the same. Douglas probably would never have known where she lodged, if one day by chance the taxi hadn't picked him up first on the way to the airfield. The boarding house was infamous in Fitton, notorious for having one of the nosiest and strictest land ladies in town, treating her charges like school children- as indeed most of them practically were, come to study at the nursing college and sent to Mrs Harvington by parents who did not trust them to live independently without getting into trouble. No-one ever stayed there long if they could avoid it. "I only stay there because the rent is so cheap!" Martha defended. "Fine… you can introduce me to Bernard. But _just _introduce me! That's it!"

"Good." Douglas said, approvingly. "You never know, something might spark."

"Maybe." She said, not sounding too convinced. "Maybe for you it's that easy, but it's not the same for all of us. I'm sure when you met Elaine and your eyes met across a crowded bar, you knew straight away that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with her, but not all of us are lucky enough to-"

"She's pregnant." Douglas interrupted. He hadn't meant to tell her, but somehow he just blurted it out. "Elaine is pregnant."

He gripped the control column and looked out dead ahead.

"Oh!" Martha said in surprise. "Oh…" She said again, with the full weight of realisation.

"Yes." Douglas said, heavily.

"Congratulations."

"Thank you."

"But you must… I mean, you must love her, a bit, if you slept with her."

"Yes." He continued looking ahead. "I don't really have a choice about it, now. I've got to love her, or I'll be a terrible husband and a worse father."

"I don't think you have a choice about love anyway." Martha said. She reached over and patted his elbow. "I'm sorry, Douglas."

"I'll be fine, Martha." He said. "I'll be fine."

Oooooooooooooo

_"__With this Ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."_

Douglas had almost forgotten the words. It didn't help that they were ancient words, outdated and foreign to a modern tongue. Of course, the Bucks Fizz he had consumed that morning probably didn't help either. Still, he had a lot to be thankful for. He was grateful that the vicar was of the liberal variety who believed in second chances and had allowed them to marry in Church irrespective of Douglas' previous divorce- Elaine would not have been content with a registry office. She was beautiful. She had been an absolute dream in her wedding dress; a true vision of loveliness, so that even Douglas had felt a flutter in his chest and the stirrings of pride that _he _was the man that would have her on his arm. She had always been fashion-conscious, glamorous, elegant, and he had no doubt that, if she had only been given the right opportunities, she could have made it as a model. He really believed it, too, it wasn't just something he said to pacify her or flatter her. The only thing that needed improvement was her name. Nobody was going to put Elaine Barrows- Elaine _Richardson_, now- on the cover of _Vogue_.

She could do it, though. Leaning on the bar at the social club which was hosting their reception, Douglas was convinced she could do it. Elaine was always conscious of how she looked, smoothing her skirt and hair, posing so that she looked her best, leaning just a little forward, showing a little more cleavage, batting her eyes more affectionately at the unsuspecting man in front of her. Douglas wasn't sure what she wanted from him. Trying to crib a cigarette, from the look of it. If she succeeded, he would go and share with her; he had smoked the last of his pack at some point between the photographer's flashbulbs going off in his face. Douglas surveyed the party critically. The DJ wasn't too bad, mediating between the latest hits from the discos and old classics. Right now it was something by _Earth Wind and Fire, _a number of people, including his brother, staggering drunkenly about on the dance floor. Everyone was now so sufficiently sozzled that Douglas felt he was well within his rights to get completely legless himself. He ordered another drink, scanning along the length of the bar to see who his fellow barflies were.

He was pleased to see Martha and Bernard were still sitting together, Martha chatting animatedly, gesturing wildly. She was at least wearing a dress; she had even, shockingly, managed to stretch to some small heels. The dress was completely the wrong colour for her complexion and was ill-fitting, sitting askew as she talked, but at least she had tried- to a point at least, her hair was in its usual bun. Douglas wondered if she believed, really and truly, that it looked best like that. Still, at least she seemed to be enjoying herself, her whole face was alive and animated as she talked, he could practically feel her enthusiasm flowing down the bar. This first aroused his suspicions, Bernard's face heightened them, and the gestures Martha was making that looked worryingly like the illustration of how to land safely in a crosswind confirmed it. The stupid girl was talking to him about aviation. Douglas suppressed a groan. It was no wonder she never got a second date.

Bernard handed her a cigarette and handed it to her, probably hoping it would shut her up, optimistically supposing it was possible to halt her once she got started on flying. Douglas decided it was time to give up and go and rescue his poor cousin. He stood- slightly unsteady, but nothing he couldn't handle- and went over to them.

"Martha, you've quit." He said accusingly, taking the cigarette out of her mouth and puffing it himself appreciatively. Cousin Bernard could always be relied on to buy a good brand. He would have to find out what it was later, though smoking had never been his main vice. Bernard very quickly availed himself of the opportunity to offer his place on the bar stool to Douglas and slipped away.

"I know, I know." She pouted. "But I was enjoying myself so much I just _fancied_ one. I was just telling Bernar- Oh, he's gone."

"Yes, he has, hasn't he?" Douglas agreed. "You scared him off talking about aeroplanes."

"But I _like _aeroplanes."

Douglas couldn't help it. He laughed. She sounded so much like a child. He almost choked on his cousin's excellent cigarette. "Martha, my dear, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but you will _never _find a man if he has to like aeroplanes as much as you do."

"He might!" She said. "And don't call me that."

"Call you what? I said 'Martha'."

"No, you said 'Martha, My Dear'. Like that old Beatles tune. They used to tease me with that at school. It was about Paul Macartney's dog!"

"What are you on about?" Douglas laughed. "You're drunk!"

"You might be, _I'm_ not!"

"Yes, you are! The Beatles did _not _sing about little doggies!"

"Yes, they did! It ruined The Beatles for me, I was heartbroken!"

"Rubbish!"

"No, I'm serious- oh, good!" She waved at Arthur, who had obviously been looking for them and gambolled enthusiastically over, beaming. "Arthur, tell him The Beatles did write a song about an old English sheepdog named Martha."

"Okay." Arthur said. "They did, Douglas."

"Oh, really?" Douglas turned to him. "And how did this tune go, Arthur?"

"I don't know, I've never heard of it." He said cheerfully, making Martha groan in frustration. "But if Skipper thinks so, then they must have done! Skip, mum says she won't dance with me anymore and I'm to come and make you. Sorry." He offered his hand, apologetically.

"Oh, Arthur, no, I'm not dancing, no." Martha looked suitably horrified. "No."

"I'm sorry, Skip, but it was a code red, I had to leave. Anyway, you haven't danced at all yet! Come on, it'll be fun."

"No, I can't dance."

"That I can well believe." Douglas snorted. Martha glared at him. Douglas pushed her off the stool and into Arthur. "It's my wedding, Martha, and I say you're dancing. Go on, have fun you two."

Arthur needed no further telling and dragged the reluctant Martha off with him. At least they were more or less evenly matched, both as terrible at dancing as the other. There was only so long watching them to keep him amused, however, and eventually his interest waned and drifted. He scanned the hall with little actual object except to find something to take his attention. Goodness only knew where Elaine was. Probably changing clothes again; he had seen her in at least three outfits that day. He had emptied out half his wardrobe in preparation for her moving in properly, but it almost certainly wouldn't be enough. He felt a pre-emptive headache as he anticipated the argument and turned back to his drink. He found it was empty, and waved down the barman to order another. When he turned back to survey the carnage of the party, he had no idea that what he saw would change his life.

If he had known, he would have turned more slowly, savoured the moment, burnt her face at every angle, at every glance, into his mind; reflected on the way the light from the disco ball glittered across her hair and slid off it. As it was, he turned quickly, not expecting the empty stool next to him to have become suddenly occupied. But that was Helena all over; she could move so gracefully, so elegantly, that she didn't make a sound. To him, that first time they met, it seemed as if she had simply appeared from nowhere.

The DJ was playing an old Frank Sinatra song, the one where he spoilt everything by saying he was love. She was wearing a tight black dress that showed her curves, wearing it with tights so thin it almost looked as if she was wearing nothing at all on her legs. They were folded neatly in front of her, one foot tapping in time to the music, long elegant fingers tapping it out on the bar. She smiled at Douglas, more with her brown eyes than her red lips, which just allowed the quickest glimpse of slightly crooked teeth. There was so much warmth in that smile he expected the ice in his whiskey to melt. She was not a conventional beauty, but that smile had firmly gripped his heart and his stomach and was twisting them painfully. He tried to smile winningly back. She spoke first.

"Bride or groom?" She asked, jokingly.

"Oh, I'm on the groom's side." He said, casually, and she laughed. Good, she knew who he was. He had no idea who she was, however. He had never seen her before.

"I don't really know why I'm here." She said, leaning forward confidentially. His heart was thudding in a way it hadn't since he had met Veronica, a way he thought it wouldn't again. He knew he should look around for his wife, but this woman was looking him right in the eyes with all the air of confessing a secret, and he didn't want to look away first. "I'm dating the brother of a friend of the bride's. I've never even met her."

"So did you come for the bar or the company?"

"I came to try and stop my arse of a boyfriend from hitting on anyone." She said, nodding at where a man with dark hair was whispering into the ear of Elaine's sister. "I've given up, though. He's a dick, I'm going to dump him after this."

"You must have had some reason to be seeing him in the first place."

"I didn't have anyone else." She shrugged, and Douglas' insides twisted strangely again. He didn't think he had ever heard such an honest answer. She sounded like the sort of woman who you could tell anything, because she had already heard everything, and wasn't afraid to say anything. She was genuine, he realised, there was no persona or façade. She didn't hide behind a mask of joviality and bluster. She gave herself nothing to live up to, had nothing to be accountable to. It made her more beautiful in his eyes. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"Yeah." She said, sipping from her own glass and then setting it down again. "Why did you get married? Do you love her?"

"Of course." Douglas said. "She's my wife."

"You old romantic." She said, nudging his arm in the manner of friendly banter. "She's very pretty."

"Yes." Douglas agreed. He didn't want to talk about his wife. Not to this woman. It made him feel very, very boring and very, very _married_.

Helena, who introduced herself a moment later, obviously didn't find him boring. She was charming and well natured and funny, and altogether a fresh breeze that blew into the wedding reception. Douglas enjoyed himself considerably talking to her. He hoped, although she would be splitting up with the brother of the friend, they could find a reason to meet again.

But he didn't enjoy himself _too _much. He was a married man. He was no longer free to flirt; he had no reason to. And he wouldn't, however tempting it was, however charming she was, however much he was burning to. Douglas Richardson was not a cheat, and if he couldn't stop instinct and impulse he would stop actions. He just had to get used to being married again, used to not chatting up every passing woman who took his fancy. He would do it. He would be honourable. He would love his wife, for the sake of his child.

It was hard, though. It was hard when such a woman was before him. He wouldn't see her again, not after this. He owed his family, and himself, more than that. But tonight, tonight was fair game. He had met her by chance, by mistake, and he was on his best behaviour. They were just talking. There wasn't any harm in it.

"Douglas!" Elaine hissed at him, later, from across the room. It was almost time for them to go. Douglas realised he hadn't danced, hadn't mingled, he hadn't even eaten anything except the wedding cake. He had been too distracted by Helena. She looked startled too, checking her watch with a raised eyebrow. The time had passed without their noticing.

"Well." He said, waving a hand to Elaine to show he was coming, but not looking away from Helena. "It was nice talking to you."

"And you." She replied.

"_Douglas_!" Elaine insisted, rather shrill now. Douglas went to be with his wife. By the time he looked back to the bar, Helena had disappeared into the crowd.

Oooooooooooooo

They should have gone abroad, Douglas thought, as Elaine shivered and cuddled closer into his side. He wrapped an arm around her and squeezed her shoulders in a show of affection, but she was so busy fussing with her hair which was being constantly tossed by the wind that he had to move it out of the way, hold her by the waist instead. Blackpool was not the ideal honeymoon location, not in February in a year when the winter seemed determined to cling on for a ludicrous amount of time. He would have taken her abroad, if there had been time to get her a passport sorted out and if she had any desire to leave the country. They could have gone somewhere warm, instead of shivering in the evening breeze coming off the choppy sea. Occasionally it would splash up between the tiny gaps in the planks, and Elaine would tut at the slightest drop that made contact with her shoe. She was so particular about her clothes Douglas didn't know what she would do if it started to rain.

_Dissolve, probably, _he thought, remembering long childhood hours stuck in bed with the measles and his father patiently reading _The Wizard of Oz_ to him in his sombre, serious voice. To Douglas, it had seemed a cruel and unusual punishment- no boy wishes to be told "There's no place like home" when he's confined indoors. His father used to peer at him afterwards as if expecting him to have learnt some moral lesson. Well, he hadn't.

He was a moral disappointment to his father, Douglas knew that. His father, who had always been proud of his own father's role in the temperance movement, who took alcohol only on special occasions and then only a glass; that steward of old England, who believed in King and Country and Home and Family and Faith; always quietly and never obviously. Douglas believed in some of those things, but he also believed in choice, and money, and glamour and travel; and wine and women and ale. One by one these things were being closed off to him by his married state, his freedom was being limited by the shadow of responsibility. He was drinking a lot. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought perhaps it was slightly too much- but he was on his _honeymoon_. It was allowed, expected, even, by everyone except his father, who loved his son but disagreed with his choices.

The alcohol helped, anyway. It made him wittier, funnier, and easier to get along with. Elaine, too, was funnier and more charming after one or both of them had a glass or two in them. Her fussing about a drop of salt water stopped being irritating and became endearing. He was lucky, he was so lucky, to have such a gorgeous example of femininity, full of the caprices of womanhood, as his wife. She would only give birth to the most beautiful children, he would only father the most intelligent.

"This child," He told Elaine, patting her stomach as she finished with her hair, "Will either be the Prime Minister or his wife. Either way, a Richardson will run the country." He went to kiss her cheek. She pulled away, irritated.

"Don't tell the whole world." She said, readjusting her coat to try and make sure the tiny bump that nobody else would notice was hidden.

"You're allowed to be pregnant." Douglas snapped back. "You're married. You're my wife. That was the whole bloody point of this to begin with, wasn't it?"

Elaine glared at him and walked off in a sulk, pretending to examine the programme outside one of the theatres. Douglas was damned if he was going to follow her. She didn't have to be overjoyed about the marriage- _he _wasn't- but she could at least be happy about the baby. It was frightening, yes, it was downright terrifying, but it was their child, getting ready to come into the world. It was more than a millstone around their necks, it was something wonderful, a miracle, and she could be a little happier about it. He wasn't going to follow. He had done nothing wrong.

He began to feel anger snaking up from his stomach. Not only had he done nothing _wrong_, he'd done everything _right_. She had been under no pressure to sleep with him, she had wanted it as much as him, if not more. He had done the decent thing and married her. He was even _trying _to love her, but she was making it so damn hard. She hadn't slept with him once since Christmas Eve, not once since becoming his wife. Her every look was resentment, every time he touched her it was met with cold indifference. She expected his devotion, oh yes, she expected him to love her and would have been the first to complain if she thought he was lacking in affection, but she took these offerings and tossed them back at him with disdain. Her whole attitude was as if he _owed _her something, as if he had wronged her and would be working the rest of his life to _make it up to her_. Douglas had been married for three days. He felt the bitterness of a man a hundred years old. He wished he had flirted with Helena, flirted with her and kissed her and ran away with her.

But there was the child to consider. There was still the child. And Elaine could be funny and considerate when she wanted to be, the woman was great fun when she was in the right mood; she certainly teased him like no-one else. And she was his wife. She had his loyalty, whether she deserved it or not.

But he was _not _going to follow her. Not while she was behaving like this. He leant back against the railings, arms folded, his back to the sea, watching instead the people milling about through the various amusements, gambling, fortune telling and fairground rides the pier had to offer. Elaine did not come back. After an hour he had tired of the stale mate, but was by no means ready to accept defeat. He'd done nothing wrong, and the injustice still rankled within him. So instead, he left the pier, and caught one of the trams that ran along the water front. He went to the very end of the bay, where the tower looked like a mere spire, a needle intruding into the sky. For a fleeting moment he wished he was in the sky himself, flying with Arthur and Martha, somewhere fun and very far away, but then he had a better idea. He turned and entered the nearest bar.

It was a pub, and would have done better to have just admitted the fact and gone on serving pints of bitter and lager and little packs of pork scratchings and offering snooker, darts and a fruit machine as a comprehensive range of entertainment, but instead it was the kind that was desperately trying to modernise and was now serving a half-hearted range of cocktails- fruit juice and alcohol thrown together at random with a few withered grapes and a small umbrella- and had draped glittering streamers here and there without any real consistency, effort or aesthetic sense. They'd employed a cabaret act of similar quality; their gaudy costumes and ill-fated attempts to get the audience (which consisted almost entirely of despairing locals) had Douglas wincing as he entered. As he got to the bar to place his order, however, they started singing and they weren't bad.

_"I know I stand in line until you think you have the time to spend an evening with me…"_

He jumped, nearly spilling his beer. Why this song, again? He was trying so hard _not_ to think about Helena, and now they were performing the very song that had been playing the very moment he had first met her. Douglas shook his head and began to move between the tables, looking for a place to sit.

_"And if we go someplace to dance I know that there's a chance you won't be leaving with me…"_

Douglas wished they would shut up. He moved further into the bar, trying to get further away from the singing. It was a pity it was only a small pub.

_"And afterwards we drop into a quiet little place and have a drink or two; and then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like 'I love you'…" _

He saw her, sitting by a window. His heart recognised her before he did, beating faster on some animal instinct as he looked at the back of her head. He hadn't seen her from this angle at the wedding, but somehow, his heart still knew her, recognised her as she gazed out of the window, looking out at the dusk. She turned and his heart jolted as he recognised her profile. It was her. It was definitely her, undoubtedly Helena.

For a moment, Douglas' mind leaped to the conclusion that she was here for _him_, that she had been thinking about him too, that this was fate, with the music and their meeting, that it was a sign. But of course that was absurd. Ridiculous. She hadn't even known they were coming to Blackpool. She certainly couldn't have known he would be here.

Still, though. It was too much of a coincidence to ignore, too much to just pass by. He went over to her.

"Helena?"

"Douglas!" She said, with so much surprise she clearly had _not _known he would be there. "What brings you here?"

_Serendipity, _he thought. "Honeymoon." He said.

"Where's Elaine?"

"Who knows?" He replied. She smiled, but looked concerned.

"Will you sit down?"

He sat. They talked. She had broken up with her boyfriend and had come on a mini-break as a treat to herself. She had come alone. She was taking a break before working out what to do next. She drank gin and tonics and ate the lemon slices afterwards. Later, as they talked, she would drape her fingers unthinkingly into his empty pint glasses, rubbing off the foam and licking it off her fingers, seemingly without so much as noticing. Douglas had never had a conversation that ebbed and flowed so easily between big questions and funny anecdotes, the serious and the trivial. One moment he would be telling his adventures in the CND march and the next they were discussing trade unions. His first impressions were confirmed and exceeded. He found her to be charming, witty, intelligent and beautiful. She was perfect. If he had met her first-

But he hadn't. Love at first sight was too late when you'd already been thoroughly browsing the earlier samples. Even so, her hand felt right in his as she squeezed at all the right moments to emphasise what she was saying. He rubbed his thumb over hers, wondering if it would really be so bad, so very bad if he kissed her.

Yes. He wasn't a cheat. Then again, if he had no feelings for Elaine, he wondered if it was possible to cheat on her at all. Cheat on his marriage, yes, but on Elaine? Perhaps not.

Helena played with his fingers again, but her eyes were serious. "You look like you're thinking deep thoughts."

"I'm thinking about kissing you." He said, honestly. "And about my wife."

"Why did you marry her, Douglas?" She asked, again, though she pulled her hand away. "Do you love her?"

"No. She's pregnant."

"Oh." Helena didn't break eye contact. "Does she love you?"

"No. We just got married for the kid's sake."

"And she knows that?"

"Her reasons were the same."

"Then you've done your duty, haven't you?" Helena said. They were leaning so close to each other he could smell an evening of alcohol on her breath. "You don't have to be unhappy too, Douglas. You've done everything you have to do."

Their lips met a second later. Douglas wasn't sure who kissed who, but a moment later his hands were in her hair and everything seemed right in the world.

Oooooooooooooo

Elaine might have been asleep when he got into the hotel room later that night, the time it took to get a tram back after last orders. She was lying in bed in the dark, but as he tried to get in without disturbing her- unsuccessfully, he was rather drunk- he realised she was crying.

"Elaine…" He said awkwardly. His words were slurring. "Don't cry."

He wondered if she knew he had kissed Helena, if she knew he might even have gone back to her hotel instead of his if she had let him. She said she didn't sleep with married men. He had suddenly felt his shame pressing down on him and had left, gone back to Elaine. And she was crying. His stomach twisted, but not in the pleasant way he had felt before. He wished he wasn't so drunk, if this was going to get serious.

"…Let's just have fun, Douglas." She said, desperation in her voice. "We're married, but it doesn't have to be all serious and solemn. Let's just have fun, like before, okay? We'll just have fun."

She kissed him, with all her hopeless desperation. He tried to kiss her back like he used to, before Helena. It was just a bit of fun. Just for fun.


	5. Rotterdam

A/N: I'm in a hurry to post this before work, so I'm afraid it isn't proof-read. Sorry! Please enjoy anyway…

Chapter Five- Rotterdam

Carolyn was, if anything, a little too proud of her tiny tin-pot company, at least as far as Douglas was concerned. True, Carolyn wasn't doing too badly, all things considered; but their number of customers was dropping, not rising. They just couldn't offer the same services as the larger airlines; they couldn't offer first-class, high-speed flights to the other side of the globe, with attractive stewardesses at every turn. Instead they had an aging plane with an interior and glamour akin to a company coach excursion to Bournemouth. Douglas wasn't sure that there was much future in private air travel, but he wasn't going to disagree. A job was a job, a job that allowed him to support his wife, and, best of all, get as far away from her as possible with fair frequency. When he said that to Martha, she would roll her eyes at him, but never thought he was serious. She assumed he was joking.

He wasn't. He and Elaine had found they got on best if they let each other be as much as possible. So he tried to stay out of her way- more than that, he actively avoided her. On the nights he was obliged to be in England, he would go down the pub with his mates, and she would go with hers, and sometimes they would bump into one another and get on famously and even go home together. They would lie together on her bed and laugh when the child in her stomach kicked and distorted her flesh. Douglas had to be careful, though. Elaine had never gained so much weight in her life. She rather resented the pregnancy for making it so she couldn't fit into her favourite trouser suit and the waistbands of her skirts sat wrong over the bump. Douglas had once made the mistake of suggesting she could just take them out a little, but Elaine was not terribly handy with a needle and liable to stab him with one for the very idea. If he had to spend as much on the child's clothes as he did on the mother's, they'd soon be in trouble.

Helena, in comparison, was extremely low-maintenance. Douglas didn't have to avoid her six days of the week in order to tolerate her on the seventh; in fact he felt as if he could have spent every moment with her, if circumstances had allowed it. He was almost certain Elaine knew about the affair, but she didn't seem to mind; and he was always as considerate as possible about it. He never brought Helena home, even when he knew Elaine would be out; usually they went on daytrips, to some town where none of Elaine's friends would see them and judge. Sometimes he told Elaine it was another flight and he spent another night in a hotel, this time with Helena. He tried not to think too hard about what he was doing. He didn't like the idea that he was a cheat, when he had promised to be faithful. But it was hard not to justify it. He loved Helena, Elaine _knew _their marriage was just one of decency anyway, he wasn't going to hurt her. If he was happy, he was in a better mood with his wife and they were all happier for it. The arrangement worked, for them at least. It wasn't pretty, but whose life was these days? They were all just making the best of it.

Besides, Helena still wouldn't sleep with him. Not when he was a married man. Even in the hotels, they had twin beds. Douglas, too, was making the best of it.

The maxim held true to MJN air as much as anything else. Their customers were declining, and the only reason they were able to keep themselves out of serious financial difficulty was because Carolyn had somehow managed to secure a lucrative contract from a Russian named Alyakhin, flying his clients back and forth across Europe. Douglas had not been terribly happy about being sponsored by a Russian; neither had Martha, but Carolyn and Mr Alyakhin's piles of cash had won the day in the end. Carolyn had dismissed their fears as nonsense in a conversation that had taken a rather interesting turn:

"Oh, don't be so stupid." She'd said, scornfully. "The Russians are our allies, remember? Who do you think got the Germans off the Eastern Front?"

"Yes, but that was before they put nuclear missiles into Cuba and pointed them very firmly at the Western World." Douglas had pointed out, feeling his fears were quite justified. Martha nodded her agreement.

"I'm not sure I want money from a man who probably earned it making weapons." She agreed. "You don't make money in a communist dictatorship by keeping your hands clean."

"He made most of his money abroad, actually." Carolyn had sniffed. "Anyway, that's all long in the past, Russia's all laid back now. Laid back enough that he can jolly well invest in a British air firm if he wants to. Besides, I know Mr Alyakhin. He's fine."

"_Know _him?" Douglas' suspicions had been aroused by something in Carolyn's tone. "What do you mean, _know _him?"

"Well, I met him, actually. During the war."

"Did you?"

"How?" Martha had been interested in spite of herself.

"He was a war hero." Carolyn had informed them in her usual clipped tones. "He came for a sort of presentation and parade. I was only a girl at the time of course, but I was chosen to… present him."

"Did you?" Douglas had asked again, with delight. "And was your girlish heart won over by his muscles and rugged man-looks?"

"Shut up." Carolyn had turned to Martha at that point. "He'll pay us well, Martha. Do it and I'll give you a bonus every time we fly for him."

"…how much of a bonus?" Martha had asked, interested now. Douglas had felt it necessary to interrupt then, incensed at this blatant display of favouritism.

"And where's my bonus?"

"You don't get one. I don't pay her nearly as much as you to begin with."

"What?" Douglas had been thrown by that, to say the least. "What do you mean?"

"She's a woman." Carolyn had said, shrugging. "I don't have to."

"You know, Carolyn, there is this thing called 'The Equal Pay Act of 1970'-"

"Yes, but it doesn't come into force until December." Carolyn had replied with apparent glee. "I have a few months yet. Or I would, except she agreed to work for less than that anyway."

"Carolyn!" Martha had yelped, going blood red, and slowly the full story had emerged. Not only did Martha not get paid as much as Douglas, in spite of being in the senior position, she worked for fifty per cent _less _than any other female captain- if there _were _any other female captains- would have done. Altogether, she earned a fraction of what Douglas did. All those lines Carolyn had given him about wanting to give the women a chance were a load of crock. She had hired _Captain _Crieff because the poor girl sold herself so cheaply. Knowing that this was the only reason he was in the junior position had helped Douglas' sense of self-worth enormously. He could disregard his last shreds of respect for Martha's pretend authority, bought with half her salary. That day had ended with her slapping him round the face for his constant needling, after which he had backed off somewhat. After all, she never had a dig at him for his divorce or his marriage-of-necessity, so he supposed that this was equally taboo. Besides, he didn't want to upset her, not really. He would take her down a few pegs when she needed it, but making women cry wasn't really his thing. In fact, he hated it. Tears would move him like nothing else. He hoped Martha never found this out; when she was in a bad mood and convinced she was in the right, she would have no qualms about using it against him.

Martha, of course, had ended up with an extra reason not to like Mr Alyakhin. Carolyn had deemed him important enough and old fashioned enough that they mustn't risk offending him with a female captain; so, under protest but mostly resigned exasperation, Martha had been forced back into a stewardess uniform, going into the cabin and serving drinks every so often even though the flight had been long enough that they needed the two of them on the flight deck. There had been a rather hairy moment when Mr Alyakhin had insisted that there _had _to be two pilots and Douglas had been forced into some rather creative lies, managing to persuade him that Arthur was actually twenty-one despite his boyish appearance and was fully qualified and licensed to fly aeroplanes. Martha had been particularly wound up about that- she couldn't believe _Arthur _was a more credible and acceptable pilot than she was just because he wasn't a girl. Douglas, on that occasion, was inclined to agree. Martha had come on in leaps and bounds since she had been hired (although he wouldn't have told her that) and she was by no means a _bad _pilot. The problem was, she just didn't _look _like one.

And that was why Douglas was at the airfield much earlier than her, hours before they were due to fly to Rotterdam, and in the utmost secrecy. Mr Alyakhin had decreed that MJN Air should do some proper publicity, including some posters, featuring pictures of the 'craft and crew. And by crew, Carolyn meant Douglas, Arthur in his usual capacity as a steward, and an actor named Martin she had hired to come and pose as a captain, because he looked like one. Carolyn was hoping to avoid Martha's complaints a little longer by taking the necessary shots of them pretending to be 'in action' on the flight deck before she arrived. The problem was that Martin, the actor, was far from a natural, and getting pictures from him took far longer than anyone had anticipated. His poses were always awkward, unnatural, and his facial expressions seemed to range from merely insincere to frankly ridiculous. No matter what they showed him, no matter how they positioned him, the man was incapable of appearing as if he was flying the plane. It was an interesting development. They retreated to the office to plan their next move.

"Maybe I can be a pilot again, and Martin can be in the background being a steward!" Arthur suggested, hopefully. He had been rather disappointed with his allocated position in the shots- in the background with his face turned away, so that Mr Alyakhin couldn't remember his 'pilot' from last time.

"No, you look even less like a pilot than he does." Carolyn said. "Anyway, Martin, just _try_- just try to… just… oh no, she can't be here _already!_" She had been interrupted by the sounds of music, getting louder, and the rumbling of an old and unhealthy engine pulling onto the airfield.

"Who can't?" Douglas asked. He could make out the song now.

_"…asking you if I can fix a rendezvous for your dreams are all I believe…" _It was a cheery song which did nothing to drown out the throbbing engine. Abruptly, the radio and the engine stopped at once. Carolyn looked flustered.

"Arthur, Douglas, get out there and stall her, for goodness' sake!" She said, flapping her arms towards the door.

"Don't tell me that was _Martha_-"

"Now!"

Mystified, Douglas followed Arthur outside, only to find Martha hopping down out of a small Ford Transit, a 1966 model from the look of it. He stared, and then groaned. Of course it was Martha's. He should have guessed from the pedantically straight parking, but he hadn't. He always arrived after she did, and left before. He had assumed the van belonged to one of the ground staff, to a man in overalls. But no, as usual, it was his captain, who had about as much femininity as a pint of bitter accidentally spilt over a dart board in a pub brawl. She, on the other hand, was oblivious, smiling with pride as she got out of the cab.

"Hello, Douglas." She said, knocking her knuckles against the side of the van affectionately. "You haven't met Bertie yet, have you?" Her brow furrowed suddenly and she looked over to Arthur. "That is right, isn't it, Arthur? Bertie?"

"Right!" Arthur said. "To go with Gerti!"

"Right. Douglas, this is my van, Bertie!" Martha gestured expansively. "Tada!" She turned to look at him properly when he didn't reply and seemed surprised by his lack of enthusiasm. Douglas was shaking his head.

"What?" She asked, nervously. "I know it's a little old, and the engine rattles a bit, and it smells a bit funny if you run it for too long, but you can drown that out with the radio and open the window a crack and then it's fine otherwise…"

"Honestly, Martha, cut off your hair, strap down your chest, they're wasted on you." He sighed. "You can't tell me this is seriously your van?"

"Yes." She seemed not so much offended as confused, as if she really didn't know what was wrong. "Well, it was dad's van, but he knew I didn't have a car, and he left it to me, so now it's mine." She suddenly smiled again. "You won't _believe _how useful it is, having a car. There's only one bus an hour out to the airfield, and even then you have to walk for about a mile-"

"But you don't _have _a car!" Douglas protested. "You have a van! A van, as driven by overweight and aging plumbers and dodgy builders! Do you really think that's appropriate for a young lady?"

"Appropriate?" She was frowning in displeasure now, looking almost offended. "I don't really care if you think it's appropriate or not, Douglas, as long as it gets me from A to B."

"And yet you wonder why you're always single." He sighed. "You know, Martha, it would do you a lot of good if you cared a bit more. You'd find you get a lot further in life if you didn't keep making such a fool of yourself."

Martha was bristling now, her cheeks flushing angrily. "What do you mean, making a fool of myself?" She demanded.

"Well, all… this." Douglas gestured helplessly. Her job, her trousers, her _van_. Why couldn't she see it? He just wanted her to be happy, that was all. Trying to be one of the boys wasn't the way to get on, it just made her look like a phoney. He wanted to see her be natural, have some self-respect. She couldn't prove women were capable of being pilots if she insisted on playing captain, acting the lad. She should come and be a girl in defiance of all that, and just be herself. Clearly she didn't understand, however, because her eyes narrowed and she drew herself up as high as she could, to her full affronted height.

"Are you saying there's something _wrong _with me driving a van and flying a plane, Douglas?" She asked. "And what do you _mean_, get further in life? You mean if I wear a skirt and flash my legs and bat my eyelids, maybe someone will take pity on me? And then we can get married and have children and this _poor, poor little woman _won't be forced into doing a _man's _job in a _man's _van anymore! Because of course, _naturally, _that's all we women want deep down, isn't it? Oh!" She clapped her hands together in sarcastic delight. "Maybe if I can just learn to shut my mouth and not talk about the big complicated aeroplanes, your cousin Bernard will take me back!"

"That wasn't what I meant." Douglas said, irritably. "I just think you should make use of what you've got-"

"To do _what_?!" She interrupted, frustrated. "I _want _to be a pilot, Douglas, I _want _to fly aeroplanes, and that's what I'm doing and I can do it just as well if I'm wearing trousers than if I was to wear a skirt. So I'm sorry if I seem like a _waste _to you, I'm sorry if my '_lack _of femininity' _offends _you, but the problem is _yours_, not _mine._" So saying, she stormed off towards the portacabin in a foul mood. They heard her outrage from a distance of twenty paces as she found the 'new pilot' in their portacabin. "Carolyn, who on earth is _this_?!"

Ah. This wouldn't end well.

Oooooooooooooo

The flight was completed with near silence between them. Oddly, the silence seemed to take on a different tone and timbre depending on who it was not-saying it. There was offended and angry silence (Martha), awkward and nervous silence (Arthur) and the silence of someone who knew they were in the right and weren't going to break first (Douglas). He couldn't see what Martha was so upset about. If she didn't want to be teased, she shouldn't drive a bloody _van_.

There was an extra reason for the captain's dark mood, of course. When she had found out that Martin was to replace her as captain on the company photographs, she had argued and protested but Carolyn had been unmoveable and Martin had been treated with dark and injured resentment, just because he looked more like a captain than she did.

But that had been on the _ground_. Carolyn had decided to take the actor with them to Rotterdam, so he could watch them fly and get some idea of what it _really _looked like. She knew exactly how to get around Martha, who brightened considerably, and became far less bitter, when she had the opportunity to explain to someone how the _big complicated aeroplane _was operated. Coupled with Martin's flattery, his constantly being impressed with her status as a pilot and her knowledge- perhaps he was a better actor than they thought, or else he was just easily impressed- Martha was soon smiling again, and being quite gracious to their guest; although clearly still in a mood with Douglas. Her ill temper towards him wasn't the only reason the flight dragged. There was only so much flattery of his captain he could bear to hear. All in all, he was very glad when they landed back in Fitton.

The trip had made no difference to Martin's abilities to pose realistically though. He looked, in turn, like a mannequin or the melodramatic hero of an opera. All his pilot-y appearance disappeared the moment he tried to behave as one. Carolyn dragged Douglas off for an emergency meeting, in which Douglas gave the rather obvious solution that he himself played the captain and Martin sat in the first officer's seat, with his face out of focus. Martha wouldn't like it, but then, she never liked anything. He wasn't going to pander to her bad mood; and it wouldn't hurt her to let him be captain for once, especially as it was only pretend. Of course, it would be his face as the captain on all the publicity, but there it was. Martha had been vile to him all day; ripping his head off when he didn't like the van and being snippy or just ignoring him ever since. If she wanted to ignore him, he would ignore her back, and see how she liked being ignored and absent from the photographs.

Of course he wasn't going to ignore her so far as to _not _go in and gloat about playing the captain. Leaving Carolyn behind, he headed back towards the office on his own. Martha had been left in care of Martin, and from what he could hear through the thin wooden walls of the portacabin, they were getting on _wonderfully_.

"So, Martha, you're really a pilot?"

"Yes, I am, a _captain_. Is that really so hard to believe?! You've just _seen _me flying the plane!"

"Oh, bloody hell, I didn't mean it like that, sorry." He back pedalled furiously. "I just meant… well, that's really impressive."

"…You really think so?" Martha asked, and the anger had immediately vanished from her tone. Douglas rolled his eyes and was about to go in- the man had been telling her so the entire flight, after all- but she hadn't finished, and what she said next stopped him in his tracks, leaving him listening outside the door. "You don't think it's a, a waste?" She sounded sad now, hurt. He hadn't meant to hurt her, he hadn't meant it like that. He found he couldn't go in. He wanted to hear what was said.

"A waste? No, I think it's incredible." There was real eagerness in his voice. Douglas found him silently resenting this man. It wasn't _that _incredible. Women had been flying aeroplanes twenty years ago, like his aunt. Anyway, Martha's ego and pride did not need to be puffed up any more than it already was. Usually was. The problem was she was so unpredictable. Nine times out of ten, any perceived affront to her capabilities was met with a swelling of indignation; the last it would send her into a deep crisis of confidence. Douglas certainly wasn't going to pander to her, trying to restore her. She'd be back to her usual overbearing self in no time anyway- and Martin didn't need any help in his flattery.

"You must have, you know, had a bit of opposition though." He carried on. "I've never met a female pilot before, let alone a captain."

"Well, not that much…" Martha mumbled, unconvincingly. "I mean, I've always wanted, I always wanted to be a pilot. I think my parents hoped I'd grow out of it, they tried to get me to have other interests and stuff, but when I didn't… well, they did what they could. Not that there was much they could do. None of the flight schools would take me. It was hard enough to get into the _cadets_." She paused, and continued with an air of guilty revelation. "I mean, that might have been the same even if I was a man. I barely passed the requirements. But I'm sure they judged me harshly so they had an excuse to say no! And then I couldn't find a job… they just laughed, or passed me on, or felt me up, or told me to be a stewardess, and then there was Carolyn, and she said, she _told _me she wanted to give me a chance, she said that having a female captain would be a good marketing angle, that people would take me seriously…" She sighed hopelessly. "But she was obviously lying. Or wrong. Because it obviously isn't good for marketing or she'd put me on the posters and she wouldn't have you coming here in your better uniform and better appearance looking all... captain-y."

There was an awkward pause.

"Sorry." Martin said, haltingly. "But… I obviously don't, do I, or we would have finished the posters this morning. I mean, I sort of know how you feel. I know it's not quite the same, but… I just want to be an actor! Nobody ever lets me do any acting! Even this job is just _posing_ and now they're not going to let me do that either, I don't think she even would have chosen me if I hadn't agreed to do it for free-"

"You're not getting paid?" She interrupted, sounding delighted at having found a comrade.

"No, not at all." He said. "Don't tell me she's not paying you either?"

"Only half wages. And it might be less than that, if these posters don't get us some more business."

"Oh, goodness, I'm so sorry."

Another awkward pause.

"Perhaps it's best I'm not in them, then." Martin said, finally. "If they don't think I'm good enough. It's just so frustrating, when you _know_, without _any _doubt at all what you were put on this earth to do-"

"And you just can't seem to persuade anyone else." Martha completed, quietly. "I can imagine."

They both chuckled and fell into another silence, companionable this time.

"It seems like we've got something in common." Martin said, lightly. "Maybe we should go for a drink sometime, drown our sorrows. We always go to a nice little pub on Cooper's Street called The Railway Arms. Do you know it?"

"I… think I've been past it."

"Oh, well, drop in next time. I'll introduce you. Prove that it isn't just me who'll do anything to live the dream."

"Some dream." Martha laughed gently. "I'd like that. Thank you."

_Some dream. _That was when Douglas knew he really had hurt her. It was true that flying a little plane in a little town for pin money with a first officer who was more skilled than she was probably had not been the fantasy of her childhood, but Martha wouldn't admit that, she would _never _admit that, she wouldn't be Martha if she did. She just wanted to fly aeroplanes, nothing else mattered.

But then there were people, like him, who told her it was all a waste of time; or rather, that _she _was wasting her time, that she should have put her energies into being more womanly.

And now, just to make things that little bit worse, she had found a kindred spirit and was going to date him. Douglas wasn't sure why he was so against it- She and Martin clearly had a lot in common, and he'd seemed decent enough- but it just wasn't _right_. She should aim for something better than that. You couldn't have two failures in a marriage, it simply wouldn't function; they wouldn't be able to survive on half-wages and no wages. It sounded like Martin did a bit of taxi driving to get by, but what good would that do if he only worked part time to support his habit? There was no future in this relationship. It needed to be nipped in the bud. He went to push open the door, to stroll in and make a few choice sarcastic comments and bring the whole thing toppling down on them, to make sure Martha would never set foot in the Railway Arms.

It occurred to him that it was none of his business.

He wasn't Martha's husband or brother, he certainly wasn't her father; right now, in fact, he probably wasn't even a particularly good friend. And she hardly had suitors knocking down the door begging for her attention and affection. Perhaps she should just take what she could get, with his blessing. Perhaps they would be happy. He stepped back, intending to leave, not wanting to interrupt when there was a good mood going on in there.

"Douglas, why are you skulking about listening in doorways?" Carolyn demanded, in her loudest voice. There was no doubt they had heard inside, judging from Martha's outraged _"Oh!"_. Carolyn barged past him and went in. He seemed to have no choice but to follow.

"Douglas!" Martha was on her feet, her cheeks pinking with indignation. "What were you doing out there?"

He had to make a sarcastic comment now. He didn't really have a choice. "I'm sorry, Captain, I just didn't want to interrupt when you were doing so very _well _in here…"

"A-actually, I-" Martin stammered, awkwardly, but Martha interrupted.

"Well, maybe not _everyone _thinks I'm as much of a _waste _as you do." She huffed. "I'm going to go and check Gerti." She shoved past him and stormed out.

"Douglas, what did you do?" Carolyn asked, exasperated. "You've been off with each other all day. Go and make it up to her."

"But I didn't-"

"I don't care if you _did _anything, just go and grovel and flatter until she forgives you." Carolyn said. Clearly, Douglas thought, she was passing on her guilt about leaving Martha out of the photographs. "I need to speak to Martin. Off you go."

Douglas went, having no desire to hear what would probably be a rather unpleasant conversation. Besides, he did feel a little guilty that Martha had taken his words so much to heart. He hadn't meant that being a pilot was a waste of time for her, he had just meant that she didn't make the most of her womanliness, but she had clearly been offended by it. It was time to go and remind her what a loveable rouge he was, who said these things without meaning to.

He found her in Gerti's hold, moodily scraping at the stain that whirled cheerily on the floor in the back corner. They had done a removal for a company that made curtains and other linen a few months ago, when they had been getting rid of dead stock a decade old. In the cold, the fabric had got damp and the tie-dye had run out all over the floor. They had never been able to get rid of the last cheery spot of green, purple and pink that had been left behind. "Hello, Martha." He tried.

"What do you want?" She asked. Not the warmest reception.

"Nothing. I just came to congratulate you on securing a date."

"It's not a date." Martha said, sounding genuinely surprised. This woman was hopeless. "It's just a drink, as friends, because we're sort of in the same position."

"It sounded to me like a date." Douglas said. "And just because _you _don't see it that way doesn't mean _he _doesn't."

"You… really think so?" Martha asked, hesitantly, thoughtfully, probably considering Martin in a new light.

"Absolutely." Douglas said, piling it on, trying to get back in her good books. "He's probably on his way to the Railway Arms right now, to tell his friends about the _marvellous, impressive, amazing _pilot he met today, and how he's going to bring her to meet them all."

"Yes, alright, that's enough." She said, but sounded more kindly towards him than she had all day. It was time to finish it.

"Martha, about what I said this morning… you know I didn't mean it."

Martha sniffed and said nothing.

"You most definitely should not strap down your chest, Captain, for two reasons. First of all, let's be honest, it wouldn't make much of a difference; and secondly, what would I do with myself on long flights if I couldn't… admire the scenery?"

"Douglas!" She said again, but it was more her usual tone of exasperated tolerance, as if she expected nothing else of him. And he was just warming up.

"Sorry Captain, but you know what they say, any port in a storm. And as for your hair, don't cut it off, that would be a tragedy. "You have lovely hair. A regular Tina Louise."

"Who?"

"You know, Ginger Grant. From Gilligan's Island. No? Well, she's lovely. I had rather a crush on her growing up, actually."

Martha laughed, and the companionship between them was somewhat restored to normal. "Yes, alright, thank you. It's just… it's not _nice_, Douglas, being told I'm a terrible woman all the time and on the other being told I'm a terrible pilot. I don't see why I can't be both, but people are acting like I can't be either."

"I didn't mean it like that." Douglas said. "I just think you could make a bit more of yourself, that's all. Be a bit more confident, show off a bit more. Look, just try it- when you go on your date with Martin-"

"It's _not _a date!"

"-When you go on your not-a-date with Martin, just try wearing a nice dress and doing your hair properly. You might even try some make up. You'd be surprised what a difference it can make."

Martha hummed and they fell into silence, standing side by side in the hold. For a moment, everything was okay.

"Your wife is very pretty." Martha said suddenly. "Or she looked it, when you got married. You can't tell me that was _completely _down to good clothes and make up."

"Maybe not completely." Douglas admitted. "But mostly."

He didn't want to talk about Elaine. He didn't want to think about her. He thought about her, and talked about her, as little as possible. That was the arrangement, the unspoken agreement. He didn't want to think about Elaine, and how beautiful she had been on their wedding day. They were just going to have fun, and not take it seriously.

Oooooooooooooo

Another Saturday, another flight. The worst thing about being a pilot was the irregular hours, and especially working at the weekends. Helena had been busy the night before, so Douglas had gone down to the pub instead. It had been something of a heavy night, even by his standards, and he had woken up with the worst hang over he'd had since his flight school days. Thankfully, the flight that day was extremely short, a quick hop down to Cornwall and back, and at least there was something to look forward to at the end of it. Helena was going to meet him at the airfield on his return, as was their custom, so Elaine didn't have to see. They were going to drive into Coventry and see a film, have dinner. If he played his cards right, he might even get a night in the hotel, and away from Elaine.

Separate beds of course. He wasn't a cheat, not really. The irony was, of course, was that he and Elaine had been sleeping in separate beds for weeks now. Separate rooms, even. They barely saw one another, if they could avoid it. They would have to patch things up before the baby was born and needed a room, or there wouldn't be one spare. But he didn't want to think about that, not today. Separate rooms made sense. He worked irregular hours; this way he could get in and out without disturbing her. The arrangement was all perfectly amicable. They could still share the scotch or wine or whiskey from the kitchen without any trouble. It was all working fine.

Still, he wouldn't have necessarily gotten out of bed without the promise of Helena at the other end of the day. It took all his energy as it was, standing up, fighting the dizziness and the sudden flashbacks to faces and odd sentences and snatches of songs of a night he didn't remember. He remembered throwing a punch at someone. He wasn't sure who or why, but it obviously hadn't been much of a fight as he showed no marks of it on his body, not even his knuckles. He needed to smarten himself up for Helena, but he didn't trust himself to move his aching head in order to comb his hair without being sick. He had always been able to handle his drink; it must have been a heavy night indeed to leave him in such a state. Still, it was only Martha, and only a passenger flight. He changed into his uniform with clumsy fingers. He would smarten up before he met Helena, after he'd woken up and consumed a heroic amount of coffee during the flight.

Things came off remarkably well, in the end. Carolyn was absent, apparently not feeling it necessary to supervise the loading of a few crates of fishing net clamps (much needed by the working fishermen of Cornwall, Douglas was sure, but not adding much glamour to their job) and such a short flight. Martha, too, made no comment on his sore head and seemed, for reasons of her own, to prefer working in silence that morning. He only had Arthur's relentless cheeriness to deal with, but the boy bounded around with such energy, helped get the plane loaded so quickly and somehow still provided endless cups of coffee, that it was difficult to hold it together. He even managed, to Douglas' great surprise, to provide him with some toast and, at Martha's request, some aspirin. She tutted and rolled her eyes at him, but allowed him to sit back in quiet on the flight deck and rest, rousing him only to unload at Pendeen and fly home again. Douglas wasn't sure where this show of benevolence had come from, not sure if he had done something to deserve her compassion or if she was expecting him to do something in the future and was trying to get on his good side. It was only after they had landed and were making their way away from the airfield that he suddenly realised. She had been avoiding speaking to him because she didn't want to draw him into conversation. She didn't want him to ask about her _date_. No wonder she was making a beeline for her van, rather than for the office.

"So," Douglas said, not planning on letting her escape, keeping pace easily as they went towards the nook where vehicles could park. "How did it go?"

"How did what go?" She said, with so much insincere lightness that it was clear she knew precisely what he meant.

"Your date. How was it?"

"It wasn't a date."

"Oh, come on, no need to be shy. I'm a man of the world; whatever you got up to, I've probably-"

"No, Douglas, it _really _wasn't a date." She said, sighing. "He brought his wife with him. Lovely woman, very kind, very witty, bit of a mood killer."

"Oh." He said, trying not to laugh. "So when he said _'we' _go to the Railway Arms, he didn't mean him and his mates?"

"No. He did not mean him and his mates."

"He meant him and his wife."

"Yes, thank you, Douglas, I did get that when he turned up with his _wife_." She snapped, then groaned. "It was so awkward, I mean, they're lovely people, very pleasant, it was a good night, but they're all loved up and… urrgh."

"Ha. You're not the romantic, then?"

"Not with married men." Martha corrected. "I just hope he didn't realise I thought- though it was your fault. Imagine what his wife would think of me."

Douglas did not want to reply. He did not want to imagine.

"She might not mind."

Martha snorted. "I think she would. Oh!" She squinted ahead of them, to the woman standing by Douglas' car. "Isn't that… Helena? From the wedding? What is she doing here?" Before Douglas could stop her, she strode forward in greeting. "Hello again. Helena, isn't it? We met at the wedding."

"Oh yes." The light of recognition came into Helena's eyes. Douglas felt close to panic. He didn't know they had spoken at the wedding. He didn't remember them speaking at the wedding. And yet, clearly, they had. "Martha, wasn't it? I didn't realise you were _that _Martha."

"You live down on the Brunswick Road." Martha stated, clearly dredging up the only fact she could remember from their conversation and holding it out triumphantly. "Um, which Martha?"

"Well, Douglas' Martha. You're a pilot, aren't you? The first officer?"

Martha looked at Douglas in confusion. Douglas tried to look at her as pleadingly as possible. He should have undeceived Helena about his position by now, he knew, but it was so embarrassing. The only thing that would make it worse would be if Martha revealed him.

"Yes, that's… that's right." She said, slowly, still baffled. He would hear about that later, he was sure. "Are, are you here to see Douglas?"

"Yes." Helena said, shortly. Clearly she too had realised it was pointless to lie.

"Oh." Martha said, weakly, and Douglas knew then that she knew. "I… I didn't know you two were related."

"We aren't." Helena said.

"Oh. Of course not. Sorry." She was stammering now, looking at Douglas in horror. Douglas looked away. Her face made all the shame and guilt he had been trying to argue himself out of rear up again. It dredged up everything he didn't want to remember. She was looking at him like he had just gone down in her estimations, and he had spent too long building himself up in her eyes to be able to stand it. Neither he nor Helena said anything. "I… I… good to see you again, Helena, I'd better go. Goodbye. Goodbye Douglas." She all but fled for her van, dropped it carelessly into gear and drove away.

Douglas looked helplessly at Helena and laughed. There was nothing funny, there was just nothing else to do. Without any further ado, they got into the car and drove into Coventry, to watch a film and maybe, if things went well, to spend a night in a hotel.


End file.
